


Alone in Athens

by lyryk (s_k)



Series: Ripley Fix-it [2]
Category: Talented Mr Ripley (1999)
Genre: F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-04
Updated: 2008-08-04
Packaged: 2019-07-11 22:11:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15981548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_k/pseuds/lyryk





	1. Chapter 1

_Deceitful, scheming, murderous._ A description that certainly fits both of Peter’s recent partners rather well. 

Meeting Dickie again did not raise any dormant feelings in Peter of the time that they had shared. Most of it had been vile, admittedly, but Peter cannot deny that Dickie had left an impression on him that no one else had quite managed to.

Until Tom, of course. Tom, with his childlike smile and his wonderfully blue eyes and his passion for Peter. Everything which crumbled into nothingness for a few abysmal hours after his passion turned murderous, turning on Peter with the most terrifying tenacity as he wrapped the cord from Peter’s own robe around his throat and half strangled the life out of him.

Peter almost wishes he had succeeded.

It’s not like Peter to think such thoughts at all. It isn’t remotely like him. It’s not like him to be such a fool. He’s been a fool for love before, but never blinded to this extent, never in a state where he embraced his own doom willingly, giving his would-be killer a second chance.

But Tom had proven himself, to some extent. He had seemed genuinely inconsolable at what he had done. If Dickie hadn’t turned up when he had, Tom and Peter may have been able to set things completely right by now.

But no. Of course things never work out the way one wants them to. Of course it’s always the worst possible scenario that emerges from the wealth of possibilities offered by a single moment.

And so Peter finds himself alone with Dickie on the deck of the _Hellenes_ , sharing a last, miserable glance with Tom before he and Meredith disappear. Peter turns away from their retreating backs, and his eyes meet Dickie’s.

“Won’t you sit down?” Dickie smirks softly, shifting his legs so that he is straddling the lounge chair. Peter takes a deep breath and sits, his posture mimicking Dickie’s, facing him. 

_Time to take the plunge, Peter old boy._

Dickie takes a long swig of his Irish coffee, and then wipes the froth off his lips with his sleeve before handing Peter the mug. Peter takes it almost gratefully and puts it to his lips, the sharpness of the whiskey-drenched caffeine soothing his frayed senses a little.

“So, did you spill all the beans to your precious little Tom?”

“Don’t call him that, Dickie. The man tried to murder me.”

Dickie’s eyebrows arch in a familiar, arrogant gesture that makes Peter want to hit him. Peter Smith-Kingsley, barely controlling the urge towards violence? He’s been hanging around with amoral men for too long.

“I thought you said he was still honourable, blah blah? A hundred times better than I’d ever be, and all that jazz?” he drawls.

Nothing has made Peter cringe ever before like the effort he has to put in to arrange his features into an expression that, he hopes, will convey regret and some measure of tenderness.

“I’m sorry I used those words, Dick. I had to appease him. I couldn’t have both of you out for my blood.”

A strong wind whips Peter’s hair over his face, and before he can reach up Dickie’s hand is there, smoothing Peter’s hair out of his eyes in a surprisingly tender gesture. “So what are you saying now, Pete?”

“I’m saying I want to know how you want to play this. And I’m saying that I’m with you no matter what you decide.”

“Really.” Dickie’s tone is soft, unreadable, but Peter can see his eyes raking his face, trying to gauge his intentions.

“Really.”

“Even if my intent is to kill the snivelling little bastard and be rid of him for good?”

Peter is surprised at how little the words affect him. Surely he should feel something, anything, at that scathing denunciation of the man who has come to mean so much to Peter. But there seems to be a fathomless pit where his heart used to be, the core of his being hollowed by too much treachery and brutality.

“Even if that is your intent.” Peter’s tongue seems to have a will of its own, speaking words that seem to belong to someone else. “But I would prefer to leave his punishment to the authorities.”

Dickie leans in toward him, slipping his hand behind Peter’s neck and gripping him like a vice. “And what if I don’t want to do that?” he breathes into Peter’s ear.

Peter expected that his flesh would crawl at Dickie’s touch, but all he feels is a mild prickling as Dickie holds him in place. Peter cannot tell if the sensation is the result of indulgence or loathing. His body seems to have a will of its own that his mind is not privy to.

“I honestly don’t know, Dick. At any rate, the decision is hardly in my hands.”

“What if I put it in your hands?”

“What do you mean?”

“Make a choice. His side or mine. Make a decision, Pete.” His voice is almost pleading, but his grip on Peter remains harsh. “Now.”

“What about Marge?”

Dickie lets go of Peter, raking his fingers through his hair in a violent motion. “What about Marge? Let her think me dead. The one good thing Ripley ever did was free me from her clutches.”

“That’s cruel, Dick.”

“More cruel than what your boyfriend did to me?”

“I told you not to refer to him that way.” Peter’s voice is a little sharp. He’s still trying to get used to these new tones in his voice and behaviour that Dickie and Tom have infused in him.

Dickie has the grace to look abashed. “Point taken, love. But you haven’t answered my question.”

“No. No, it’s not more cruel than what he did to you. It’s not even remotely as cruel as what he did. But Marge need not suffer for what he —” 

“Marge deserves to suffer for the clingy little insect she is!” Spit sprays like venom from his mouth. A couple of people walking past turn and glance at him.

“Let’s get inside,” Dickie mutters. He takes Peter firmly by the elbow and hauls him to his feet, and Peter has no choice but to follow him back to his cabin.

Dickie unlocks the door and pushes Peter inside with a hand on his back. Peter forces himself to stifle the exasperation he feels at being pushed around yet again, but he’s always kept his emotions hidden in the face of antagonism. It’s the only way he can keep his emotions in check; by letting others see him as composed Peter Smith-Kingsley, the tranquil musician who does not have an ounce of violence in him. It’s the only way he can keep his whole building of skeletons from crashing down on him.

Dickie’s hand on his back thrusts Peter forwards and he slams into the wall, the breath knocked out of him. Before he can recover, Dickie has turned him around forcibly and clamped his mouth on Peter’s in a frenzy of passion, and Peter groans inwardly even as he struggles to breathe. What is it about him that turns men into such monsters?

Peter gasps out Dickie’s name as Dickie removes his mouth from his for a moment, hoping he will think it is out of reciprocated passion rather than as a protest against not being allowed to breathe. 

“I’m sorry, Pete.” Dickie is breathing rather heavily, his eyes looking into Peter’s almost sorrowfully. “I can’t let you go. You’re the only one who knows the whole story, who can give me away to Marge.”

“Dick, I said I would — ” 

Dickie cuts Peter off with a hand over his mouth. “Don’t say a word, Pete. It’s too late. I wish I could… I… You’re the only one who could have… But now, I can’t… I dare not… I have no choice…” He is babbling now, almost sobbing as he clings to Peter. Oh, dear lord. Must they all weep before they threaten his life?

Dickie manhandles Peter’s arms behind his back and binds them with a coil of rope from his pocket. Peter groans as the ropes bite into his wrists, already bruised from Tom’s bindings. Dickie does a very thorough job, winding the rope securely over Peter’s forearms and elbows as well, until his arms are pinned uselessly behind his back.

“On the bed, Pete,” he says quietly. Peter obeys silently and lies still as Dickie binds his ankles together as well. He moves to the door and unlocks it. 

“It doesn’t have to be this way, Dick,” Peter says, with as much composure as he can gather.

“I’m sorry, love. I’ll be back later. Don’t worry, no one will disturb you while I’m gone. The Greenleaf name works wonders, you see.”

With that, he is gone.

If Peter weren’t on the verge of being murdered for the second time in two days, it would probably be hilariously funny that he is again in the same predicament as Tom had forced him into in his own cabin. At least he is conscious this time. 

He is suddenly aware that even though the _Hellenes_ is still bucking, the engines have died. They must have docked. There is a porthole right above the bed, and through it Peter can see the turbulent grey sky outside. A storm is brewing, making the ship strain against its chains like a bronco. If he can raise himself on to his knees, he just may be able to look through the porthole. He is lying on his stomach, and it takes several agonising minutes before he is able to pull himself up on his knees, his shoulders wrenched back and hurting most damnably. His eyes can just about peer out above the rim of the rounded opening.

His porthole is almost at the level of the water, but the _Hellenes_ is moored a good distance away from the pier, and he can see passengers and crew milling about on the docks, gathering their belongings and getting into waiting cars and buses. 

Their belongings… Peter’s heart feels like a cold hand has gripped it without warning. His score. He doesn’t have it. The last time he’d seen it was just before Tom had attacked him in his cabin. He lets out a howl of frustration and struggles against his bindings, but only succeeds in making his skin chafe more than ever under the rough ropes. 

The file must have fallen on the floor during his struggle with Tom. Is it too much to hope that Tom will notice it, that he will take care of it? Will he even go back to Peter’s cabin before he disembarks? He has no reason to. Of all that Peter has lost during this infernal voyage, the loss of the only copy of the sonata he’s been working on for months is perhaps the worst blow of all.

He forces himself to take deep breaths, to focus on the situation at hand. He wonders if Dickie is far enough away not to hear him if he tries calling out for help, and hesitates. The sea is wild even in the harbour, and before he can decide whether or not to take the risk of calling attention to himself, the _Hellenes_ dips suddenly and a wave of salt water crashes through the porthole, entering his nose and eyes roughly and making him rear back on the bed. He manages to keep his balance but his eyes sting devilishly, and he curses aloud as his dripping hair works itself into salt-soaked strands that form a curtain in front of his eyes. If he’d stayed at home, at least his mum would have made him get a haircut by now. The thought is enough to bring him to the verge of a hysterical laugh. It is several moments before he can shake the hair away from his face and blink enough of the salt away to look through the opening again.

And the first thing he sees is Tom, looking utterly forsaken and lost.

He is standing close to the edge of the pier, looking desperately into the rapidly thinning crowd. Peter knows Tom is searching for him, frantic for his safety, his paranoia building as he tries to envision why Peter is not there. He instinctively calls out Tom’s name, but no more than a whisper emerges, followed by a cough and the stinging taste of salt in his throat and nostrils. He desperately tries to clear his throat and call out again. This time his voice is stronger, but he already knows that there is not a hope of Tom hearing him over the roar of the ocean.

Before Peter can call out again there is a deafening roar of thunder and the sky splits open, and sheets of water begin cascading on the pier and on to the _Hellenes_. Somewhat to Peter’s amazement, Tom stands his ground, allowing the rain to soak him through completely. His shoulders are slumped in defeat, and Peter’s heart, unbidden, goes out to Tom as a powerful emotion ripples through his body, making him shiver with more than just the cold. Nothing but complete devotion to Peter could make him look like that, and Peter hates seeing him so utterly despondent. 

“Tom!” He screams as if his very life depends on Tom’s hearing him. Which, in all honesty, it does. 

Tom does not hear me, and a taxi stops in front of him. 

“Tom!” Peter screams again, his lungs burning. “Tom, I’m here! Tom!” 

Tom turns around and begins walking back towards Peter, and Peter’s heart pounds. Could he possibly have — ? 

No. Tom disappears into a nearby building. Barely a minute later he is back and enters the taxi before Peter’s eyes, and Peter is powerless to stop him. The car revs its engines and Peter screams out his name again with every ounce of strength that he can muster. 

“Tom! Tom!” 

Peter thinks he sees Tom turn around in his seat as the car moves away, but it is too late. The car is rapidly swallowed up by the downpour and Peter can see it no more. He keeps looking out after it nevertheless, unmindful of the rain beating on his face, as his last glimmer of hope evanesces before his eyes.

The next few hours are the most wretched of his life, as the cabin grows dark and he lies on the sodden bed. His limbs have lost almost all sensation from being bound for so long, but he knows that his wrists are scraped and bleeding from the raw hemp cutting into them. The salt from the water that keeps trickling in through the porthole makes the cuts sting horribly if he moves his hands, but he does not dare to stop trying to loosen his bonds. At long last, when the cabin is almost completely dark except for the moonlight streaming through the porthole, he feels a knot give. He works carefully on the ropes, his spirit somewhat renewed, and several torturous minutes later, he feels the ropes around his wrists give way completely.

Before he can even untangle his wrists completely from the rope, he hears footsteps outside the cabin. He hastily winds the rope around his wrists again as securely as possible, biting his lip to keep from crying out as pain shoots through his raw and bleeding wrists.

He hears the soft jingle of keys before the door opens noiselessly, and Dickie is silhouetted in the doorway. There is a large lantern in his hand, which he sets on the small table by the bed as he peers down at Peter. The light slices into Peter’s eyes like a blade, and he turns his head away as Dickie takes out a knife and rapidly slits the cords binding Peter’s feet.

Dickie grabs him around the waist and makes him stand. Peter’s numbed feet give way under him and Dickie holds him tightly against him to keep him upright. The sinister embrace offers Peter little comfort. 

“Come on, Pete,” Dickie whispers, almost tenderly. 

The lamp casts a soft glow around the little cabin and the entire scene seems to Peter to be a menacing parody of a lovers’ meeting. Dickie blows out the lamp and half-drags, half-carries Peter out of the cabin and up the stairs to the deck. Every movement is increasingly painful, but it also helps Peter regain his circulation. He grows more confident of his movements as the pain sends life back into his limbs, but is careful not to reveal this to Dickie, leaning heavily on him as he guides them across the deck to the railing.

The moon is high in the night sky and there is not a soul in sight as Dickie drags Peter over to the railing and makes him lean over it so that he is doubled over, his head and torso dangling over the edge. His world is inverted and he sees a large sandbag on the deck next to his feet. Dickie bends over and swiftly begins lashing his ankles together again. 

A wave of nausea rises in Peter’s throat. It is all too clear what Dickie intends to do. “Dickie, don’t do this!” He has to shout to be heard against the waves that are crashing against the starboard side of the ship. 

Dickie says nothing as he finishes binding Peter’s feet and attaches the rope to the mouth of the sandbag. He then wraps his arms around the sandbag with some difficulty and hoists it over the railing, panting heavily with exertion as he lets it rest next to Peter for a moment.

Dickie yanks Peter’s head back by his hair. Their eyes meet, but Peter can see nothing but blackness in his. “I’m sorry, Pete,” Dickie whispers into his ear, and presses his lips briefly, fiercely, against Peter’s temple. 

Then his other hand grasps the rope around Peter’s ankles as he hoists Peter’s legs up, and for a moment Peter is balanced on his stomach on the railing, Dickie's right hand clutching his hair and his left arm wrapped around Peter’s thighs. Then he shoves Peter forwards and down.

Peter drops like a stone, but it is nothing compared to what happens when the rope around his ankles jerks painfully as the sandbag falls as well. It hits him squarely on the back and plummets him face forwards towards the blackness of the sea. Peter tries wildly to take a deep breath just before he hits the water, but the attempt is useless. His body slams into the bitterly cold surface of the ocean like it was a slab of granite rather than water, the impact knocking the air out of his lungs. The collision feels bone-shattering, and just as he feels himself being sucked into the freezing waters, everything goes black.


	2. Chapter 2

Tom cannot stop killing him. The dreams will not let him stop.  
   
His first night in Athens without Peter is unbearable, not only because he misses Peter as if a vital part of his body and soul has been cut away, but because he betrays Peter yet again in his dreams.  
   
He dreams that Peter is playing the piano, his long, elegant fingers creating the most beautiful music that Tom has ever heard. He stands behind Peter, his hands caressing Peter’s back, slipping gently around his neck. 

He smiles as he plays. “Tom, you’re crushing me,” he says playfully. And then he stops playing, his voice rising in alarm. “Tom!” And then he can speak no more because Tom’s fingers have tightened in a death grip around his throat and there is nothing he can do but fight for his very last breath.  
   
Tom wakes up in a cold sweat, sobbing. Oh, god. Peter. What has he done? Why had he ever left Peter alone with Dickie?  
   
Consumed only by the thought of finding Peter, he forces himself to dress and gulp down a cup of coffee. The only course of action he has at the moment is to go back to the harbour master’s office, and hope that Peter has been there and left him a message. Had Peter got his message? Had he called the hotel and asked for Tom Ripley, not realising that Tom would register as Dickie Greenleaf?  
   
As he drains the last of his coffee and wills himself to think positively, a small news item in the folded newspaper catches his eye. By the time he has finished reading the brief article, he feels as if all the blood in his veins has turned to ice.  
   
 _ **Body Found at Athens Harbour** _

_Fishermen returning to the shore late last night found the body of a man who appears to have been the victim of a brutal murder. The victim is described by the police as a tall, well-built man in his late twenties to early thirties. The body is as yet unidentified, and the precise cause of death has not yet been revealed, although there seems little doubt that the death occurred as a result of foul play. The body has been taken to the city morgue for a post-mortem examination._  
   
The description fits him. No. It cannot be him.  
   
Tom has to know, even though it will kill him to know. He must go down to the police station, to the morgue. Hardly knowing what he's doing, he leaves the room and goes down to the lobby.  
   
Only to run headlong into a smiling Dickie.  
   
“Well, good morning.” Dickie is absurdly cheerful, whistling as he twirls a bunch of keys in the air, making them jingle. “Did you sleep well, Dickie?” His voice is loud, jovial.  
   
So he is continuing the charade. The thought barely registers as Tom clenches his hands into fists, willing himself to keep from hitting Dickie. 

Dickie nods casually in the direction of the newspaper that is under Tom’s arm. “I see you’ve read the news about Peter. Sad, isn’t it?”  
   
Tom is stunned by the nonchalant observation. “They haven’t identified the body,” he whispers. It is the only thing he can think of to say, the only thing that is giving him hope.  
   
“Ah, but you and I know better than them, don’t we?” Dickie whispers conspiratorially, winking. “I just finished the job for you, love. Don’t mention it.”  
   
“You bastard.” Tom’s voice is barely audible, his vision blurred with grief and rage. “You unspeakable bastard.”  
   
“Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. Is that any way to speak to a man who’s just done you a great favour?”  
   
“Why him?” Tom’s brain is still reeling, disbelieving. “Why him and not me?”  
   
“Because you’re so much fun to torture, love. I couldn’t wait to see the look on your face when you found out. Boy, is it rewarding. Poor little Tommy boy is all torn up ’cause Pete’s dead.”  
   
Tom can no longer stand still, no longer stay in Dickie's presence. He turns and stumbles away, hardly noticing where he’s going. He staggers through one of the French windows onto a patio that overlooks the swimming pool. The sun is shining brightly, and Tom has never been colder. He collapses into a chair, feeling as if he is on the verge of blacking out.  
   
Dickie follows him into the sunshine. “Don’t you want to know how it happened? Come now, don’t disappoint me. I have such a lovely tale to tell, and you’d be the perfect listener.” 

He sprawls on a chair next to Tom’s. Tom feels his strong, tanned hand on his. He squeezes Tom’s fingers gently. “Poor little Tommy,” he whispers. “Poor, rotten, selfish Tommy. You didn’t deserve that beautiful creature. You know that, don’t you?” 

Tom is frozen, tears spilling silently from his eyes. Dickie’s voice seems to be coming from very, very far away.  
   
“No, you didn’t deserve him,” Dickie goes on. “And neither did I. He was too good to be of this world, you know? People like him, the world doesn’t deserve them. And so they have to die.” 

A sob escapes Tom’s throat. “There, there, Tommy.” Dickie pats his hand. “Let it out.” 

Tom cannot control the sobs now, deep, wracking sobs that tear out of his body, threatening to slash him to pieces with their force. Dickie wraps his arms around him and rocks him gently as he sobs. He clutches blindly at Peter’s murderer, almost insane with anguish.  
   
Dickie whispers the horrific tale into Tom’s ear in excruciating detail. How he had kept Peter captive in his cabin all day. How he had gone back aboard the _Hellenes_ at night. How he had dragged Peter out on deck and pushed him overboard with a sandbag bound to his ankles. How he had watched him drown, and kept watching until the last ripple had died away, and the sea was calm again.  
   
“Did you know he could see you from my cabin when you were waiting at the docks for him yesterday?” he goes on softly. “I saw him as I was leaving. I was the only one who noticed him, because only I knew that he was there. I knew no one would be able to spot him, and I rather enjoyed watching him trying to get your attention. Oh, Tommy. If only you had turned around one more time.” He shakes his head sorrowfully.  
   
And then it seems as if all of Tom’s muscles come to life together, and he launches himself at Dickie, his fists hitting every part of Dickie that he can reach. Dickie goes down and Tom picks up a chair in blind fury, intent only on beating him to a pulp. He feels his arms grabbed from behind, and the chair is wrenched from his grasp as two security guards drag him away from Dickie. He is grinning as he picks himself up and wipes the blood from his lips.  
   
—

 

Tom is dreaming again, the cruelest dream of all. 

_He dreams that he is waking up from a nightmare in which Peter is dead. Peter is lying beside Tom, and stirs sleepily as Tom jerks awake and reaches for him blindly, frantically._

_“Tom?” he says gently, his voice soft with sleep. “What’s wrong?”_

_“Peter,” Tom gasps, thankful beyond words to find that he is alive, that he is safe, that he is with Tom. “Oh, Peter. Thank god. Thank god. I had the most terrifying dream.” He clutches Peter to him, shaking._

_“Sshh. It’s okay. Everything’s okay.” Peter holds him close, his fears melting away at the sound of Peter’s voice, the feel of his warm skin against Tom’s. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll never leave you, Tom. I promise. I’ll never leave you.”_  
   
Tom struggles awake only to find himself on a cold stone bench at the police station, where he has been held for the night following his assault on Dickie. This is what it’s like to be awake. Freezing, shaking, dying inside. He has not said a word to the police yet. They want a statement, and Tom can say nothing. They want to know why he assaulted another guest at the hotel. The only thing Tom has asked, over and over and over, is to be allowed to look at Peter one last time. His requests have been denied.  
   
They finally hand him a prewritten statement stating that he apologises for the attack and that he will not go within five hundred metres of ‘Tom Ripley’ again. As Dickie Greenleaf, he has also been asked to keep the authorities informed of all his movements and to not leave Athens under any circumstances, since he is a prime suspect in the murders of Freddie Miles and Peter Smith-Kingsley. Now that the only person who really knew him as Tom Ripley is irretrievably lost, Tom does not have the will or energy to try and stake his claim on Tom Ripley’s identity again. He scribbles Dickie’s signature on the statement silently, collects his effects from the counter, and stumbles out onto the street.  
   
There is a newspaper stall across the road, and Tom moves automatically towards it and picks up the morning paper. The news item that morning is much more emphatic than the previous day’s.  
   
 _ **MURDER VICTIM IDENTIFIED  
Young British professor and musician brutally slain**  
   
The body found at Athens harbour yesterday has been identified as that of Dr Peter Smith-Kingsley, an English professor of classical music and well-known opera repetiteur residing in Venice. Dr Smith-Kingsley, 29, was on his way to Athens, where he was to participate in a concert to be organised by the Athens Philharmonic Association in two weeks. Tragically, the young musician’s life was cut short when he met a violent end, presumably sometime during his voyage aboard the cruise liner_ Hellenes _, on which he had embarked from Venice earlier this week. The perpetrator of the crime is still at large, although the police are hopeful about making an arrest shortly.  
   
Dr Smith-Kingsley was the oldest son of the aristocratic Smith-Kingsleys, an illustrious British family, and is survived by his parents and two siblings. The family has been notified, and the body will be flown to England for burial after it is released by the authorities. “Peter was a gentle and selfless human being, and an inimitable teacher,” says Father Alberto Giordano, Head of the Department of Classical Music Studies at the University of Venice, where Dr Smith-Kingsley was a guest professor. “He is irreplaceable. Our thoughts are with his family at this difficult time, and we pray that his soul finds eternal peace.”  
   
The shocking murder has also been unofficially linked to the killing of American tourist Frederick Miles in Rome several weeks ago, although the authorities have refused to comment at this time on the possible connection between the two deaths._  
   
Accompanying the article is a large black and white photograph of Peter at the organ, conducting an orchestra in the very cathedral — _”Vivaldi’s own church,” Peter had called it_ — where Tom had seen him rehearse for the first time. Where he had gazed at Peter with his heart in his eyes and seen Peter’s face alight with love for him.  
   
Tom holds the paper close to his chest and sinks down to the pavement as a wave of dizziness washes over him. A couple of passersby move to help him and he hits out at them in blind fury, pulling himself to his feet. He begins to run, staggering as if he is intoxicated, but knowing that he cannot stop. He runs and runs until he reaches the end of the road and there is nothing ahead but an endless white beach, and there is nothing he can do but fall and cry and cry and cry until he has no more tears left.  
   
—

_“Tom?” He is shaking Tom awake gently, his hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Wake up. You’ll catch your death of cold out here.”_

_His voice is full of concern for Tom. Tom raises his head from where he has been resting it on the oak table on Peter’s terrace. “I fell asleep. I was waiting for you,” Tom says, the sleep vanishing instantly from his eyes at the sight of Peter._

_“I know.” Peter smiles his warm, radiant smile, and Tom feels as if his heart will drown in love for him. “The rehearsal went on longer than I expected. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”_

_He slips off his jacket and wraps it around Tom’s shoulders, rubbing his hands down Tom’s cold arms. “Come on, let’s get you inside.”_

_He leads Tom into his apartment where there is a merry fire crackling in the fireplace, and there is love and warmth everywhere. He deposits Tom on the sofa and gently pushes a crystal glass of wine into his hands. His nearness warms Tom instantly, and he leans his head against Peter’s chest as he sits close to Tom in front of the fire. Tom has never felt so cared for in his life, and tears of self-pity threaten to blot his vision._

_“Why are you so good to me?” Tom whispers._

_“Because you deserve it, and so much more,” Peter says, his lips against Tom’s hair, his arms secure around Tom, as if he will never let go. And Tom knows with absolute conviction that he has found home at last._


	3. Chapter 3

Tom wakes up freezing on the beach. A group of raggedly-dressed children is looking curiously at him. They must think him a madman. He looks around frantically for the newspaper, but it has long since been borne away by the wind. Only a small fragment remains in his clutching fingers, showing Peter’s hands on the keys of his beloved organ. He smoothes out the scrap of paper on the sand with infinite tenderness, remembering the touch of those hands, and a feral howl threatens to break out of his chest.  
   
He does not remember how he makes it back to the hotel. As he enters the lobby he feels as if every eye in the room is on him, and he keeps his eyes on the floor as he makes his way to his room. He is utterly exhausted by his grief, which has hollowed him out and left him little more than a shell.  
   
He enters his room to find Dickie sprawled on his bed, smoking a foul-smelling cigar. The sight of him stirs nothing in Tom, as if his soul has died with Peter. 

“Ah, there you are at last. I was beginning to worry.” Dickie gets up and pours Tom a drink. “Here, you need this.” 

He thrusts the glass into Tom’s hands and pushes him into a chair. He sits down at the edge of the bed, facing Tom. A memory hits Tom sharply, of sitting with Peter in the same way on board the _Hellenes_ , and he retches, his guts twisting. His empty stomach brings up nothing, and he drains the glass quickly. Dickie laughs and refills it.  
   
“What do you want with me?” Tom asks, his voice hoarse, more for the sake of saying something than out of any real curiosity.  
   
Dickie smiles charmingly. “You mean, what more could I possibly take away from you?” He shrugs. “Nothing, really. I didn’t want to hurt Peter, you know. Not really. He didn’t deserve to die. But it was the only way to make you suffer. This is the way I wanted to see you, broken, defeated. You’re boring again. A pity, really. At least you showed some life when you attacked me on the boat that day. Oh, but wait. One thing’s different. You’re Dickie now, aren’t you? And I, Tom, will ensure that the police has enough evidence to put Dickie away for a long, long time. And with the tidy little sum that my dear father has already written out to Tom, I should be able to live pretty comfortably. Don’t you think?”  
   
Tom says nothing. Part of him is relieved that it will soon be over. He is almost looking forward to living out his punishment, for he deserves the harshest punishment for getting Peter killed.  
   
Dickie gets up and ruffles Tom’s hair. “Oh, I thought you might want this. As a keepsake of our beloved Peter.” He pulls a familiar brown folder from his coat and flings it carelessly onto the bed. “I took the liberty of taking it from your cabin a couple of days ago. Cheerio, now. Sleep tight.”  
   
Tom barely hears the door close behind him as he moves to the bed and runs his fingertips tentatively over the folder. Guilt wrenches his insides again as he remembers thinking that Peter had taken his score from under the pillow while Tom had been asleep. Why, why had he been so guileless? He had never once thought of betraying Tom, despite what he had done to him. He had not thought of protecting or defending himself, and now Tom was alone because Peter had gotten himself killed. Sudden anger at him flares in Tom, and he picks up the folder and throws it across the room, the sheets of paper scattering on the floor.  
   
He is regretting the action almost before the folder has hit the floor. _Oh god, Peter. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry._

He scrambles on his knees to pick up every last sheet of paper. They are all numbered carefully in Peter’s neat script, and Tom arranges them devotedly, caressing each sheet as if it were a part of Peter himself, and puts them back in the folder. The alcohol swirling in his otherwise empty stomach lulls him into drowsiness and he curls up on the floor, the precious folder clutched in his arms.  
   
—

_He wakes up in the middle of the night to find Peter in a familiar position, lying on his stomach with his score propped up in front of him, chewing absently at the end of his pencil as he gazes at his music._

_He sees that Tom is awake and turns to him. “I hope the light didn’t wake you.” The only light in the bedroom is from the softly glowing lamp on his side of the bed._

_“Do you even work in your sleep?” Tom throws a pillow at him and he ducks, laughing happily._

_Tom rolls on top of Peter and wrestles him onto his back as he laughs and struggles half-heartedly, allowing Tom to pin his arms above his head as Tom straddles him. Peter’s face looks angelic in the soft lamplight, and Tom cannot resist showering him with kisses; on his forehead, his closed eyes, his nose, his cheeks, his lips._

_Peter sighs with happiness and relaxes in Tom’s arms, letting him think that he has given in to him. The moment Tom lets his guard down, Peter grabs him and rolls them over so that he is on top. They are both breathless, laughing. Tom closes his eyes in sheer bliss as Peter leans over him, his hair tickling Tom’s face, Tom’s mouth yielding under his. They make love to each other until the early hours of the morning, when they finally fall asleep in utter contentment, their limbs entangled and Tom’s head cradled in the crook of Peter’s arm._

 

—

   
Tom awakes to the sound of birds chirping from outside the window. It is another perfect morning in Athens. How Peter would have loved it. 

Tom’s limbs are sore and cramped from being on the floor all night, and he is grateful for the rolled-up jacket under his head, which has prevented his neck from getting stiff as well. He doesn’t even remember when he’d put it there. Peter’s sonata is lying beside him, and he places it carefully on the writing desk beside the hotel stationery.  
   
He doesn’t know what he will do that day, or any other day for the rest of his life. A life that he had thought he would live with Peter, an ephemeral dream that has been torn away irrevocably from them now. Tom knows that in practical terms, he must weather the murder investigation and then take things as they come. He knows he must begin the process of healing sometime, but the grievous wound of Peter’s death is going to take centuries to heal, if ever. It is too soon to think about healing. Right now, the only thing he can do is grit his teeth and try to bear the pain that threatens to overwhelm him with every breath he takes. How can he still be breathing, when Peter is not?  
   
Going through the little routine tasks of the morning helps calm his nerves slightly. He shaves, takes a shower, eats an apple, drinks his coffee. There is a much smaller item in the newspaper about the murder that morning, mentioning simply that there is to be a memorial service for Peter Smith-Kingsley at the Pieta in Venice that afternoon, where his students are to perform pieces he had taught them. Tom folds the paper carefully and puts it away.  
   
The telephone rings, and he answers it automatically.  
   
“Hello?”

“Mr Greenleaf? There is a telephone call for you from Rome. A Miss Marge Sherwood. Shall I put her through?”

The icy cold feeling returns to his veins again, and it is a moment before he can reply. “No. No. Please tell her I’m unavailable, and take a message.”

“Very good, sir.” _Click_.  
   
Marge. Tom hasn’t thought about her in what seems like forever, and now here she is again, pursuing Dickie. She must have seen the newspaper reports and traced Dickie to the hotel. What if she turns up in Athens? That would ruin Dickie’s plans to upstage Tom. It could actually work to Tom’s advantage.  
   
He goes downstairs to the reception to collect Marge’s message. It consists only of three words: “Please call me.” There is a telephone number for Rome.  
   
Tom walks out onto the street and finds a small café with an enclosed telephone booth. He dials Marge’s number. A maid answers, of course. He asks for Marge and holds his breath, waiting.  
   
“Dickie? Is that you?” She sounds frantic.

“Marge, listen. It’s me, Tom.”

“Tom?” Her voice is blank, uncomprehending. “Tom? How did you get this number? I heard about Peter. I can’t believe it I just can’t. Where’s Dickie?”

“Marge, listen to me. I got the number from Dickie just now. Marge, you have to listen to me very carefully. Dickie’s insane. He killed Peter.”

“Tom, what — ? Dickie killed Peter? How is that possible?”

“I tried to tell you, Marge. He is a cold-blooded killer without a conscience. He killed Peter, he killed Freddie, and he would have killed me if he wasn’t intent on trying to frame me for their deaths.”

“I — I don’t know what to believe. Why… why would Dickie want to hurt Peter? They were friends.”

“To hurt me, Marge. He killed Peter to hurt me. You knew about Peter and me, didn’t you?”

“Oh, god. Yes, you and Peter… He told me. He was so happy that you… Oh, god. I can’t believe he’s gone. He was… he was my closest friend.” Her voice breaks, and it is all Tom can do to keep from breaking down, too.

“Marge, listen. Can you get down here? I don’t know what Dickie’s intentions are, but he’s got everyone convinced that I’m Dickie Greenleaf. You have to help me, Marge.”

“I don’t know what’s going on, Tom. But I’m coming to Athens,” she says determinedly. “I have to see for myself what’s going on.”  
   
He hangs up after arranging to meet Marge at the airport later that evening. He goes back to his room, having no desire to walk around Athens without Peter by his side. As he enters the room, the swaying curtain at the French window leading to the private terrace catches his eye. Surely he had shut that window before he left? He whips the curtain aside and steps out onto the terrace, but there is no one in sight.  
   
His stomach rumbles and he orders a sandwich from room service, settling down in an armchair with Peter’s sonata. He can hear the notes in his head as he reads through the pages. The piece is perfect, whole except for an incomplete interlude. He remembers Peter agonising over that section, composing and recomposing it an infinite number of times. He had never managed to be satisfied with it, and now it would remain unfinished forever.  
   
—

_Peter is sitting at the piano in a cloud of cigarette smoke, his shoulders slumped wearily._

_“Peter, why don’t you take a break? Eat something. You’ve been at it all day.”_

_He turns distractedly to Tom, his hair rumpled from all the times he has run his fingers through it in frustration. “I can’t get it done, Tom. It’s right there, but I can’t put my finger on it. It’s just out of reach.” He sighs and shuts the lid of the piano, resting his forehead on it tiredly._

_Tom hates to see him so despondent. “You’ll do it, Peter. I know you will.” He stands behind Peter and squeezes his shoulders._

_Peter laughs briefly, humourlessly. “Well, it’s good that at least one of us knows it.”_

_Tom starts massaging his shoulders, and he moans softly as Tom works the muscles in his shoulders and back with his hands. “That feels so good, Tom.”_

_Tom kisses his shoulder and continues his slow kneading, trying to work the tension out of Peter’s body. Peter rests his head on his folded arms, sighing in pleasure. “What would I do without you, Tom?”_

_“Probably run off with the tattooed guy from the carnival,” Tom says with a straight face, trying to get a laugh out of him._

_He’s delighted when Peter chuckles in response. Peter turns around and gives him a brilliant smile. “You’re mad,” he laughs._

_“I know. And you’re beautiful.” Tom smoothes Peter’s hair away from his face, smiling down at him, marvelling at his exquisiteness, at the boyish good looks that make him seem so heartbreakingly young and vulnerable when he looks at Tom the way he is now. “Now, don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”  
   
He makes Peter a cup of coffee and a sandwich and brings it to him at the piano. Peter is gazing at the closed lid, looking melancholy. _

_“Eat,” Tom orders gently, nudging the plate into his hands._

_Peter smiles slightly and takes the plate, but makes no move to pick up the sandwich._

_Tom picks it up himself and raises it to Peter’s lips. “Bite.” Smiling, Peter obeys. “Chew.” Peter grins. “Swallow.” Peter laughs out loud, the sound sweeter to Tom’s ears than any piece of music can be, and takes the sandwich from Tom’s hand._

_“Now, just listen.” Tom opens his score and pushes back the lid of the piano. He plays Peter’s piece as he listens quietly. Peter winces when he reaches the unsatisfactory interlude, but does not interrupt Tom._

_By the time Tom finishes, he is so moved by the lingering melody that his eyes are wet. He turns to Peter as he traces the outlines of Tom’s fingers gently with his fingertips. “You play so beautifully, Tom.”_

_“And I would give my life to be able to compose music like you do, Peter,” Tom says simply._

_Peter smiles fondly at him. “Your life’s worth far more than my music, Tom.” He leans forward and brushes his lips against Tom’s, then pulls Tom into his arms and kisses him deeply, leisurely, indulgently._

_They smile at each other as they break apart, both a little breathless._

_“Shall I play it again? I’d like to.”_

_Peter nods and takes up his folder, making notes to himself and working a little more on the interlude and other sections, sometimes asking Tom to repeat a section or play it a little differently. Tom obeys happily, delighted to be able to help Peter like this._

 

—

   
A knock at the door startles Tom from his reverie. It is a waiter with his sandwich. The food looks suddenly unappetising, but he knows he must eat to keep his strength up. He has only eaten one apple in over twenty-four hours. He imagines that Peter is beside him, coaxing him to eat as he had once coaxed Peter. He goes over Peter’s notes again as he eats, wondering if he can somehow finish the piece for him. He can certainly try, and it will be something to do that will help him keep the grief and the insanity at bay. A little comforted at the thought of doing something constructive to help Peter, he washes down his sandwich with the remains of his coffee. It’s getting to be time to leave for the airport, and he puts the folder away carefully before leaving the room.


	4. Chapter 4

He feels as if he is floating, and his numbed body is feeling stirrings of cold wetness. He is enveloped in something soft, fluid, crushed by its weight, drowning in it. 

He is drowning. 

Before the thought can register, his mouth opens and a rush of water enters his throat. He tries to cough but he is surrounded by water and it is making its way into his nose and mouth, killing him. It takes every ounce of his strength to force himself to stop trying to breathe, to hold on to what little air is left in his lungs.  
   
The weight around his ankles is pulling him deeper and deeper towards the floor of the ocean. His hands struggle with the ropes around them. Fortunately he had managed to loosen them earlier, and now they slip off easily enough. He manages to slip out of the rest of the ropes around his chest and arms, but his feet are a different matter altogether. His chest is burning from lack of air, his brain pounding with the need for oxygen. The sea bed is not very far down so close to the harbour, and he feels his body touch the bottom as he lands beside the vile sandbag. His stiff, cold fingers pull desperately at the knots of rope binding his feet. The accursed rope will not give. He tries to undo the knots as calmly as possible, knowing that tugging on them will only make them tighter. Just when he thinks he cannot endure the lack of air anymore, the rope falls free.  
   
He kicks out as strongly as possible with his legs, his lungs hurting frightfully, almost blacking out now. He keeps swimming. He cannot see a thing in the inky blackness. Is he moving upwards? Is he only moving further into the blackness? His lungs refuse to believe that they cannot have air, and he cannot help himself from taking another great gulp of water. And finally, mercifully, he feels welcoming darkness take its hold on him.  
 

—

 

_The warm water feels awfully pleasant as it cascades down his back, and he leans his forehead against the wall and closes his eyes as the shower drains away the tiredness of the day. Not that rehearsals are ever less than a joy, but his body often feels drained after a day spent with several continuous hours in the organ loft at the Pieta. It is his home away from home, even more so than the welcoming department at the University of Venice._

_He had an early morning lecture that day on baroque forms. It was a good class, the students bright and responsive first thing in the morning. After class, he dropped by at Tom’s place to give him a box of freshly baked doughnuts that he’d picked up on the way. He’ll never get used to American breakfasts, but Tom seems to like doughnuts.  
   
As he turns off the shower there is a crash from the kitchen, and he grins to himself. Tom has insisted on making them dinner tonight. “Are you okay?” He calls out as he steps out of the tub and looks around for his towel, still smiling. It is a long time since he's heard someone else moving around in his home, and he likes the feeling.  
   
There is a knock at the bathroom door, and he opens it slightly. Tom holds out the towel, keeping his eyes averted. “I’m fine. Don’t worry, nothing broke. I only dropped the saucepan. Thought you might need this.” _

_Peter takes the towel from him, smiling at his nervousness, opening the door a little more. Tom’s breath catches sharply as he turns to Peter and then quickly looks away again._

_“It’s okay, Tom,” Peter says gently. He reaches out and frames Tom’s cheek with his damp hand, leaning in to press his lips quickly against Tom’s. Tom moans softly at his touch._

_Peter smiles at him and begin drying himself with the towel. When he moves the towel to his head, Tom takes it from his hand and begins drying Peter’s hair himself. Peter sits down at the edge of his bed and allows Tom to rub the towel over his scalp and into his hair, loving the feel of Tom’s massaging fingers._

_The towel is soon forgotten as Peter grabs Tom’s hand and pulls him down onto the bed on top of him. Tom laughs with delight and they lose themselves in each other for several moments, until they smell smoke from the kitchen._

_“My sauce!” Tom cries, and jumps out of bed. Laughing, Peter watches him run out of the room. He’s just so terribly adorable._

 

—

 

   
Peter is forced awake by his own choking, water pouring from his nose, mouth and ears. He feels the withdrawal of a pair of warm, wet lips from his own. 

A face hovers above him, a bronzed, beautiful face, surrounded by stars embedded in the indigo backdrop of the night sky. The man has wet curly hair plastered to his forehead, and a pair of startlingly blue eyes. “Let it out. Let it out,” he coaxes urgently, his hand rubbing Peter’s back.  
   
He helps Peter sit up as the last of the water drains out of his battered body. Peter is wet and shivering, unable to speak. He cannot believe he can breathe again. He concentrates on breathing, taking in sweet breaths of the fresh night air. He is on the deck of what appears to be a small fishing boat. 

“You have to get out of those wet clothes, or you will freeze to death. Come below.” Peter’s rescuer helps him to his feet with his arm around Peter’s waist, and leads him below deck.  
   
There are two bunk beds along the walls, and two more men in the small cabin. One is lying on a bunk and the other is sitting beside him. As Peter’s thoughts gain some semblance of coherence, he realises that the man on the bunk is grievously wounded. A cloth has been wrapped around his head as a rough bandage, but blood is pouring freely from what seems to be an open wound on his head.  
   
Peter’s rescuer helps him take off his dripping clothes. He feels his hands around his waist, undoing his belt and trousers. Then the man gently raises Peter’s arms above his head and pulls off his sweater. Too exhausted to be embarrassed by his nakedness, Peter allows the man to wipe him thoroughly with a towel. He wraps Peter securely in a couple of blankets, and pours him a cup of strong black coffee from a thermos. Then he leaves him to go to his companions.  
   
They speak softly in Greek, and Peter can make out nothing of what they are saying. The man on the bunk has fallen still now, his eyes closed, his breathing ragged. “He had an accident,” Peter’s rescuer says quietly to him by way of explanation.  
   
“I’m sorry.” Peter is surprised to find that he can speak. The sailor’s companion murmurs something and disappears upstairs.  
   
“You are British,” Peter’s companion says. 

Peter nods. “I had an accident, too. If you hadn’t found me…”  
   
“You were floating face down in the water. We thought you were dead. I’m Andreas.” He reaches out his hand, and Peter shakes it. “Peter.”  
   
“Peter, I will not ask what you were doing face down in the water. But from the marks around your wrists and ankles, I can guess that you weren’t diving for pleasure.”  
   
Peter takes another warming sip of coffee. He has no idea what to say.  
   
“We are fishermen, Peter. It would not do for us to be caught in a police investigation.”  
   
“Don’t worry,” Peter says quickly. “I won’t involve you. I can never repay you for what you’ve done for me.”  
   
“We should reach the shore soon. Are you well enough to find your way home? Where are you from?”  
   
“I’m from Venice. Andreas, can I stay with you for a while? My life is in danger.”  
   
Andreas scrutinises Peter with his impenetrable blue eyes. “Yes. You can. But no police, okay? They have no care for people like us.”  
   
Peter nods. “No police. No one. Thank you.”  
   
“No need for thanks.” He turns back to his wounded friend, adjusting the bandage. “Adriano is dying. We thought we could get him back to the shore in time, but I am afraid he will be dead by the time we get him to a hospital.”  
   
“Can I take a look at him? I have a bit of medical training.” Peter starts to stand, but the blankets around him are impeding his movements.  
   
“Here.” Andreas hands him a pair of corduroy trousers from a hook on the wall, and Peter slips them on. He wraps a blanket around his shoulders cowboy style to keep it from slipping off, and sits down beside the wounded man. He gently turns the injured man’s head so that he can look more closely at the wound. “Do you have another cloth I can use as padding?” 

Andreas nods and hands him a clean, worn shirt. Peter tears off a square piece, folds it into a pad and presses it against the wound. “Hold that there.” 

Andreas does as asked and Peter wraps the original bandage tightly against the fisherman’s head to hold the padding in place. He hopes that will stop the bleeding for the time being, although he can tell that Andreas is probably right; his friend seems to be on the verge of dying.  
   
“Are you a doctor?”  
   
“No. But I helped out at a hospital during the war.”  
   
He looks at Peter in surprise. “The Second World War? You don’t look old enough for that.”  
   
“I was seventeen. Wanted to do something to help.”  
   
He nods in understanding. “I’d better help Jonas bring her in. You should try and rest a while, recover your strength.”  
 

—

 

_The war._

_Peter had found it mystifying, unable to understand how a world that called itself civilised had agreed so readily to participate in such gruesome, horrendous warfare. When their house was destroyed in a blitzkrieg his parents left London to hole themselves up in the family estate in Ireland, but Peter could not bring himself to go with them. He started living at St Anthony’s Hospital, sleeping in the corridors by night like scores of other refugees, and helping to tend to patients in the wards by day. Most of them were not soldiers but civilians who had been caught in the frequent bombardments. For the first time, he began to understand the true horror of what human beings could do to each other. He may have lost his sanity if it had not been for Anna.  
   
Anna was the head nurse, tall, black-haired, British-Indian, more than a decade older than Peter was. When he had returned home from boarding school that summer, it was the end of years of abuse at a homophobic school where he had repeatedly been taunted for being ‘queer’ in his ways. He did not fully understand his sexuality and was drawn irresistibly to Anna, to her sensible ways, to the determined, stoic manner in which she braved the worst that the war had to offer. _

_Peter had had sexual encounters with boys of his age at school, but had never met anyone like Anna. It was a long time before she gave in to Peter’s inquisitive nature and incessant craving for genuine companionship, and it was only when he got to know the person behind the uniform that he understood why; she was homosexual as well._

_It was an incomparable, beautiful friendship, and they had found comfort in each other at a time when the world was disintegrating around them and there was no promise of tomorrow, of a better world than the one in which they were living, in which they would probably die. In many ways, she was the one who helped Peter understand who he was, who he wanted to be. They had parted amicably after the war, and kept in touch through letters exchanged once or twice a year. Part of the reason he had been excited about going to Athens was because she lived there, and he would be meeting her again after more than a decade._

 

—

 

   
Peter wakes up with a start, not sure how long he has been asleep. His waterlogged watch has long since stopped working. Adriano is no longer on his bunk.  
   
Peter steps out on deck to find that it is not yet dawn, and his fears are confirmed when he sees Andreas and Jonas kneeling beside Adriano’s body on the deck, getting ready to wrap him in sheets. Adriano has no coat, and Peter offers his own as a tribute to someone whose deathbed he had sat beside, whose fate could so easily have been Peter’s own. Andreas takes the coat from him, silently squeezing his shoulder in appreciation.  
   
Once Adriano is securely wrapped, Andreas sings a slow, haunting dirge Peter has heard before, ‘Eulogy for a Fisherman’. His voice is clear and strong, lilting even in its sadness. The song is in Greek, but Peter can follow some of the lyrics.  
   
 _He won't sit on the riverbank anymore  
He won't tell any more fisherman's tales  
He won't cast his fly again  
And though his creel may be empty  
Our eyes today are filled with tears._  
   
Jonas joins him during the refrain. Peter stands a little behind them as Adriano’s companions finish the simple ceremony and gently lower his body into the sea.  
   
Jonas disappears below deck after the funeral. “They were brothers,” Andreas says simply. He offers Peter a cigarette and they sit side by side on the deck. “He died before we could bring her in,” Andreas says. He sighs heavily, and points to the tallest mast on the boat. “He fell from there. He was trying to fix the sail.”  
   
“I’m sorry, Andreas.”  
   
“Thank you, Peter. He was a good friend.”  
   
They sit quietly for a while. “How are you feeling now?” Andreas asks finally.  
   
“I’m fine. Thanks to you.”  
   
He smiles slightly. “I’m happy we were there to help. You seem like a good man, Peter.”  
   
Peter doesn’t know what to say to that, and takes a slow drag of the strong, flavourful cigarette.  
   
“What will you do now?” Andreas asks.  
   
“I don’t know. Maybe lie low for the day. I have a friend who may be able to help me, but I don’t want to risk visiting her before nightfall.”  
   
He nods. “That is good thinking, Peter. You are most welcome to spend the day on my boat. I have nowhere else to offer you. This is where I live and work.”  
   
Peter assures him that his offer is more than generous. Andreas gets up to make coffee, and to check on Jonas. Peter wants to help, but Andreas insists that he remain on deck. “You need to recover your strength, my friend.”  
   
Peter gazes out at the sky which is beginning to show faint signs of the slowly approaching dawn, and thinks for the first time since his ‘accident’ about Tom. He wonders where Tom is now, whether he is searching for Peter, whether Dickie has gotten to him too. That seems unlikely, since Dickie had allowed him to disembark unharmed from the _Hellenes_. 

Peter is convinced of his love for Tom, but for the moment, he is unable to consider contacting him. The most obvious reason is that staying hidden and letting Dickie think he is dead will give him the perfect opportunity to try to discover what he is planning.  
   
Also, Peter cannot deny that he has yet to reconcile himself to the fact that Tom is a killer. Peter had accepted Tom for who he was from the moment they had met, had allowed his feelings for Tom to interfere with his judgement, even after Marge had insistently and repeatedly warned him to be careful. Now that he knows the truth, he still cannot discount how he feels about Tom. Perhaps it is something to do with his experiences during the war, but Tom’s actions still seem slightly more understandable than the mindless killings Peter had witnessed in his extreme youth.  
 

—

 

Andreas and Jonas need to sleep after their night-long vigil, and Peter spends the day on the deck while they are asleep below deck. He has little to do, and does not want to get off the boat and risk being seen. He finds a pencil and notepad in the small captain’s cabin, and he spends the morning attempting to put down what he can remember of the sonata he had been working on. There is woefully little that he can recall, and he is sick at heart at the thought of all the work he has lost.  
   
Andreas emerges from below deck around lunchtime, and shares some bread and cheese with Peter. They wash it down with some of Andreas’ home-brewed retsina. As Peter finishes his glass of the strong, sweet wine, he remembers something from the previous day.  
   
Andreas listens carefully as Peter tells him that someone may have left a message for him at the harbour master’s office. He immediately offers to check, but Peter is reluctant to let him go. “What if there’s a police investigation? I don’t want to risk you getting involved.”  
   
He shrugs off Peter’s misgivings. “It’s no problem. The authorities can’t tell one fisherman from another. They’ll never be able to identify me.”  
   
He is back soon enough, bearing Tom’s note. 

“What happened?” Peter asks. 

“Oh, it was easy. I just told them that a tourist called Peter had asked me to check if there was a message for him. They wanted your last name, but I said I couldn’t recall it. It was a common story. They are used to foreign tourists hiring our boats. Many of us make a living out of it during the holiday season. That’s how I learnt English, too.”  
   
“My name is Peter Smith-Kingsley,” Peter tells him. 

Andreas smiles warmly and claps him on the back. “I already know. It was on your letter, remember? But thanks for telling me.” They both start laughing.  
   
They are joined in the evening by Andreas’ girlfriend Elene, a spirited young woman with long blonde curls. Her presence seems to cheer Jonas up as well, and they have a pleasant evening meal on the beach. Andreas and Jonas end up getting very drunk on the retsina and recount tales of their many adventures with Adriano.  
   
When it is well past sunset, Peter says goodbye to his new friends and sets off in search of Anna’s residence. Andreas hugs him warmly before he leaves, and tells him that he is welcome back at any time.  
 

—

 

_Anna is taking the train to Edinburgh that afternoon, and Peter is at the railway station to see her off. They are both amazed at how normal the world seems, so soon after the war; people laughing, talking, drinking tea, hugging, saying goodbye. Anna thinks it has something to do with the resilience of the human spirit.  
   
She is going to teach in a nursing school in Edinburgh, and Peter has been accepted at a music school in Paris, and they are well aware that this may be the last time they meet. They sit in a little café at the station at a small table next to the window. She reaches out and squeezes Peter’s hand warmly, her soft dark hair framing her face. She is wearing a navy skirt with a matching coat and beret, and a white cashmere sweater that has a small, glittering brooch pinned to it, the only piece of jewellery she is wearing. She looks so fresh and sparkling, defined so clearly against the blur of everything else around her.  
   
“This is for you.” Peter takes out a small parcel wrapped in brown paper from his jacket pocket, and slides it across the table towards her. She throws him a look of delighted surprise, and unwraps it carefully. _

_It is a cloth-bound copy of Herodotus’ _Histories_ , and inside it is a bookmark that Peter has made himself, which is a simple sketch of Anna, smiling, her hair loose around her shoulders. _

_“My darling Peter,” she whispers, her eyes shining with tears. “You are the most beautiful person I’ve ever known. I hope the world is good to you.”_

_“If it isn’t, I can always look you up.” Peter grins at her, and she laughs heartily.  
   
At the platform, she gives him a last hug as the whistle sounds. “Take care of yourself, Peter Smith-Kingsley.” She gets on the train, slips off her beret and leans down to put it on Peter’s head, tilting it at a jaunty angle, and they share a final laugh as the train begins to move._

 

—

   
Peter rings the doorbell and waits at her doorstep. It is a minute before the door opens and she is silhouetted in the door frame. Her hair is shorter than he remembers it, but her face is almost exactly the same. 

“Who’s there?” Her voice is as clear and refined as before, a little more husky now.  
   
Peter steps into the light. “Hello, Anna.”  
   
“Oh my god.” She lets out a shriek of delight and throws her arms around Peter, and he hugs her back warmly. She leans back and holds him at arm’s length. “Look at you, all grown up! I don’t believe it!”  
   
“Anna, is everything okay?” A woman’s voice sounds from behind her. “I heard you cry out.”  
   
“Everything’s fine!” Anna calls out over her shoulder. “It’s Peter. Come in, silly, why are you still standing there?” Laughing, she grabs Peter’s arm and pulls him in. 

The first thing Peter sees is a petite woman with strawberry blonde hair and a look of amusement on her face. Anna introduces them. “This is the legendary Peter Smith-Kingsley I told you about. Peter, this is Simone Chenard.”  
   
“Peter. Of course. I’ve heard so much about you.” Simone hugs him affectionately. 

“Good things, I hope,” Peter says lightly, looking over Simone’s head at Anna. She seems radiantly happy. 

“Very good things,” Simone says with raised eyebrows, and Peter likes her immediately.  
   
“I’m sorry to call on you unannounced at this hour,” Peter says. “Shall I come back tomorrow?”  
   
“Don’t be so completely daft,” Anna says. “Although I am a bit concerned that you’ve shown up at this hour, coatless, without any luggage, looking like a pirate. And smelling like one too, I dare say.” 

Peter reaches up to feel the two days’ worth of stubble on his face, and realises what he must look like. 

“Is everything okay?” Anna asks.  
   
“Well, no. I may need your help, if you’re up for it.”  
   
“Ah, and you have a pirate’s tale to tell as well!” She laughs. “First things first. You need to get cleaned up, and those clothes need to be burnt.”  
   
“Well, okay. But you are not going to talk me into wearing a skirt.”  
   
Simone chuckles. “We’ll find you something to wear. Let me run you a hot bath.”  
   
“Thanks, Simone.” Anna sits down on the comfortable, squashy sofa and pats the seat next to her. “Sit.” 

Peter obeys, suddenly weary, feeling stupidly close to tears. 

“What is it?” Anna asks quietly. “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you again, but I’m really worried.”  
   
“I… Someone tried to kill me, Anna. A friend.” She gazes at him with wide, horrified eyes.  
   
“You need a drink,” Simone says from the doorway. She has heard what Peter has said, and he sees the same appalled sympathy on her face as there is on Anna’s. 

Simone pours out some cognac for all of them, and over the next thirty minutes, Peter relates almost everything that happened since he and Tom boarded the _Hellenes_. He leaves out Tom’s part in the tale, referring to him only as his travelling companion and close friend.

“So, let me see if I have this right,” Anna frowns as he finishes his story. She lights a cigarette before she continues. “This Dickie chap was blackmailing you earlier, was then assumed dead, and finally decided to finish you off so you couldn’t tell anyone he was alive.”  
   
“That’s about it, yes.”  
   
“How does a musician get himself entangled in an unholy mess like this?”  
   
Peter smiles wryly. “I’ve been asking myself the same thing.”  
   
“And this Tom person you spoke of. Correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems like he’s more than a friend.”  
   
“He is.”  
   
“Is it serious?” She is looking at him shrewdly.  
   
“He… Yes. Yes, it is.”  
   
“For-better-or-for-worse kind of serious?”  
   
“That’s exactly how I’d describe it.” _You don’t know the half of it, Anna._  
   
“Well, then,” Simone leans forwards, her hair falling over her forehead. “Shouldn’t you let him know you’re safe?”  
   
“I want to, Simone. But I have to find evidence against Dickie, and I can’t do that if anyone knows I’m alive. He’d cover his tracks immediately.”

“Hmmm.” Anna looks at him thoughtfully, then gives him a sudden hug. “We’ll work it out, Peter. I’m with you, whatever you decide to do. This Dickie sounds like a really nasty piece of work. How dare he treat you so viciously?”

Simone reaches out and puts her hand over Peter’s. “You’re very, very brave, Peter. To be bound and thrown into the sea like that… To survive that… You’re a remarkable person. I see now what Anna meant.”  
   
“I told you he was astonishing,” Anna says, smiling at Peter. 

He looks from one to the other. “Thank you, both of you. I don’t know what I’d have done if…” He breaks off, unable to say any more.  
   
“Well, I’ll tell you what you’ll do now,” Anna says gently, running her fingers through Peter’s disheveled hair. “You’ll take a hot bath while we fix something to eat, and then you’ll get a good night’s sleep. And tomorrow, you’ll work out how to get the bastard who did this to you.”  
 

—

 

When Peter awakes the next morning, he is aching for Tom. His hand reaches out automatically to the empty space on the bed next to him before he remembers that Tom is not there. He must be worried sick by now. Peter pushes the guilt to the back of his mind, pulls on the dressing gown that Anna had given him the previous night, and goes to take a shower.  
   
Anna knocks on the door to hand him a fresh towel, and he feels a pang of déjà vu. After his shower, he puts on the dressing gown again and goes to the kitchen, where Anna is buttering some toast. She smiles and hands him a cup of tea. “How are you feeling?”  
   
Peter sits at the dining table and stares glumly at his tea. “Like an absolute sod. About Tom, I mean.”  
   
“Ah.” She puts a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of him, with a little jar of marmalade. “Eat. You’ll feel better.”  
   
“Thanks, Anna. Where’s Simone?”  
   
“Gone to arrange your disguise,” she smiles. Peter raises his eyebrows at her as he bites into his toast. “She’s got a theatre group. Directs plays,” she explains, smiling. “We thought you needed something that would help you get out of the house. So you wouldn’t sit around moping,” she teases gently, and Peter cannot help grinning back at her.  
   
“You should take a look at this,” she says, her smile fading as she pushes a newspaper towards him. 

Peter is stunned to find himself looking down at his own face. _British professor and musician brutally slain._  
   
“Adriano,” he whispers as understanding hits him. “He was wearing my coat.”  
   
Anna sighs, pushing her hair out of her eyes. “You seem to be getting entangled deeper and deeper in this mess, sweetie. What are you going to do?”  
   
“Nothing, I suppose. Try and make the most of it, while it lasts. My coat had my initials sewn into the lining. But surely they’d base their identification of a body on more than that?”  
   
“Maybe someone identified the face as well.”  
   
“But — who would do that? Dickie? Or Tom?”  
   
“I don’t know, Peter. But you’ve got to be careful. If someone did identify that body as yours, then there’s someone out there who probably knows you’re alive. Someone dangerous, most probably.”  
   
Simone arrives shortly thereafter, grinning widely. She hands Peter an air force uniform. “Your new threads, Air Commodore.”  
   
Despite himself, Peter laughs. “Why the uniform?”  
   
“Because people are far less likely to notice the person behind a uniform. I learnt that during the war,” Anna says softly.  
   
“Go on, put it on,” Simone urges. “I checked your size from the clothes you were wearing. It should fit.”  
   
He leaves the cap on the table and heads back to the guest room with the rest of the uniform. When he emerges again, both Anna and Simone break into broad smiles.  
   
“Oh my god!” Anna cries out. “You’re gorgeous!”  
   
“Almost delectable enough to make a lesbian move over to the other side,” Simone grins, and Peter blushes under their appraising gazes.  
   
“You’ll need a bit more work to disguise that beautiful face,” Simone grins. Over the next twenty minutes, she works on Peter’s face, adding a thin moustache and a French beard. “There you go,” she says, adjusting the cap on his head and handing him a small mirror. Peter can barely recognise himself.  
 

—

 

The first thing Peter does is head to the Excelsior hotel. His uniform gives him an air of authority, and the clerk at the reception quickly confirms that both Thomas Ripley and Richard Greenleaf are registered at the hotel. “It’s funny you should ask about them, Commodore,” he says, lowering his voice slightly. “There was an… incident… yesterday morning, involving Mr Ripley and Mr Greenleaf.”  
   
“What incident was that?”  
   
“Well, Mr Greenleaf attacked Mr Ripley rather fervently. He was apprehended by the police.”  
   
“Was Mr Ripley hurt?”  
   
“Not much, sir. Just a few scratches.”  
   
“I see.” It occurs to Peter then that Tom and Dickie may have registered under each other’s names, but he has no way of being sure. “Can you give me a room?” He has no desire to stay at the hotel, but taking a room there will ensure that he can come and go as he pleases, without any questions asked. Of course, both Tom and Dickie are sure to recognise him if they see him, disguise or no disguise. But it should keep people from identifying him based on his photograph in the newspaper. As the clerk is making his registration, he glances quickly at the entries and notes both Tom’s and Dickie’s room numbers.  
   
Telling the clerk that his luggage will be arriving later, he lets the bellboy escort him to his room. After he is gone, Peter calls the reception. “Could you please send someone from room service to room 304?” 

Thomas Ripley is registered at 304, which is on the same floor as Peter’s. He slips out into the corridor and stands facing the window at the end of the corridor, lighting a cigarette. 304 is at the other end of the corridor, but he will be able to catch a glimpse of whoever opens the door.  
   
A young waiter appears from the staircase next to Peter, takes in his appearance, and nods respectfully before knocking on 304’s door. Peter rests his elbow on the windowsill and turns slightly, making sure his cap is well over his forehead. 

He doesn’t even need to catch sight of the bronzed face to confirm the identity of the man in 304, since Dickie’s voice is unmistakable as he grumpily sends the waiter away. So he is Mr Ripley. Which means that Tom is under arrest, the poor lad. It is not difficult to imagine why he must have attacked Dickie.  
   
It is easy enough to bribe Nikolaus, the bellboy, into informing him whenever Mr Greenleaf makes an appearance, or when Mr Ripley leaves the building. Peter’s uniform and appearance add credibility to his story: both individuals are the subjects of a covert Air Force investigation, and the bellboy would be doing a great service to his country by cooperating with him. Nikolaus seems terribly excited and wholly eager to help.  
   
Nikolaus informs him later that evening that Mr Greenleaf has returned to his room, and that he and Mr Ripley are both in Greenleaf’s room at the moment. Peter is immensely relieved to hear that Tom is no longer in police custody, not having realised how worried he had been about him. Nikolaus agrees to letting him into Dickie’s (‘Mr Ripley’s’) room while he is with Tom, and Peter slips in quickly. He finds that his own trunk is there as well as Dickie’s own. He searches quickly through the room, but there seems to be nothing of interest.  
   
He hears a key turn in the door, and there is nothing for it but to escape to the balcony. Peter looks into the room through a chink in the curtains. Dickie comes in, staggering slightly, apparently drunk. He collapses on the bed. Peter looks over the railing. It is far too much of a drop to the ground from the third floor, but there are pipes and creepers along the wall which may help him make his descent to the floor below. Tom’s room, 203, is next to the room directly beneath Dickie’s.  
   
Peter has never had the opportunity to engage in covert acrobatics before, but it is surprisingly easy to shimmy down a pipe, holding on to the creepers for support. He knows he should climb all the way down, but he cannot resist stopping beside Tom’s balcony. The curtains are open and he can see Tom lying on the floor, apparently fast asleep. He swallows a tinge of exasperation at the thought that Tom has been drinking with Dickie.  
   
And he is holding Peter’s precious brown folder.  
   
That does it. Peter climbs carefully onto the balcony, and slips into Tom’s room. He does not stir. Peter eases the folder gently from his clutching fingers, and looks quickly through it. It seems intact, and Peter lets out a silent sigh of immense relief at having his score in his hands again. He sits beside Tom on the floor and looks over his beloved music, knowing that to take it with him would arouse Tom’s suspicions immediately.  
   
Inside the folder, he finds a small scrap torn from a newspaper. He realises it is a part of his photograph in the paper. Indescribably moved, he looks down at Tom’s sleeping face. Even in his sleep, his face looks ravaged by grief, streaked with tears. 

“Peter,” he moans suddenly, and Peter freezes. 

Tom rolls over and hugs Peter’s arm, and Peter relaxes as he realises Tom is talking in his sleep. Peter gently pushes a stray strand of blond hair away from his face, and cannot resist brushing his lips against Tom’s forehead. Tom is still holding on to his arm, and Peter slips his other arm around him, putting his head on the floor beside Tom’s. 

For a few minutes he just lies next to Tom, looking at him, holding him. Tom’s head slips into its familiar place in the crook of Peter’s arm, and he sighs in his sleep. It cannot be clearer that he is devastated by Peter’s apparent death, and that Peter is in his thoughts even in his sleep. 

“Peter,” he moans again, clutching tightly to Peter’s arm. 

“I’m sorry, Tom,” Peter whispers into his ear, as quietly as he can. He gently slips his arm from Tom’s grasp and replaces it with the folder, and Tom’s arms tighten over it.  
   
Peter hates to leave him there on the floor, but there is no way he can move him to the bed without waking him. His neck is uncomfortably bent, and Peter cannot help rolling up his discarded jacket and slipping it beneath his head. Then he slips quietly out of the room, turning back at the door to look at Tom one last time as he lies asleep, tormented. 

_I’m sorry. I’m terribly sorry for doing this to you, Tom._

 

—

 

   
He calls Anna to let her know that he’s okay, and spends a fitful night in his hotel room. It seems absurd that Tom and he are so close and yet so far apart, that Tom is so tortured by sorrow, and that it is Peter’s fault. Perhaps he is subconsciously intending to punish Tom for almost taking Peter’s life. He had not thought he would have it in him to be so cruel.  
   
In the morning, the ever-resourceful Nikolaus tells him that Mr Greenleaf has gone out. He lets Peter back into Tom’s room. Peter looks around and wonders if he should leave Tom a note, something, anything, to let him know that he is alive. But it is too risky, given Dickie’s proximity. Peter wonders if he has enough time to take his score out and make a copy of it, but Tom is back before he can even pick it up.  
   
Peter just about manages to unlock the door to the terrace and launch himself over the railing before Tom comes in. He seems to have noticed the open door, and comes into the balcony. Peter remains hanging from the edge by his fingers, and fortunately for him, Tom does not look down. But there is no other way to get out of the situation than to climb back into the balcony and then make his way down the pipe.  
   
Managing to find a foothold on a small ledge under the balcony, Peter raises himself slightly and peers cautiously over the edge. Tom is sitting with his back to the window, and there is no way Peter can climb back into the balcony without Tom noticing him. 

Peter notices that Tom’s head is bent over the folder, and his heart goes out to him. For a moment, he wants nothing more than to call out to Tom, to end the charade and his distress. But he stays quiet, hanging there for the better part of an hour, grateful for his foothold. The balcony overlooks a small garden, and fortunately for him, there is no one there at the time who can look up and see an Air Commodore hanging from the edge of someone else’s balcony.


	5. Chapter 5

‘How’s Tom?’ Anna gives Peter a look over the rim of her glass as they sit at her dining table.  
   
He shrugs, avoiding her eyes. ‘Okay, I suppose.’ She raises her eyebrows at him. ‘Okay, then. He’s not okay. I think he’s… falling apart.’  
   
‘What are you going to do about it?’  
   
‘What can I do, Anna?’  
   
‘Tell him. Tell him you’re safe. Before he does something stupid.’  
   
‘I’m keeping an eye on him.’  
   
‘How do you know where he is right now?’  
   
‘Nikolaus told me he went to the airport to pick up Marge. I’m assuming he’s safe with her for the moment.’  
   
She sighs. ‘She’s not the one he’s in love with, is she.’  
   
‘I hate myself for doing this.’  
   
‘Then don’t.’ She puts her hand over his. ‘Don’t do it, Peter. It’s not who you are. You really… this Tom… he really means a lot to you, doesn’t he?’  
   
Peter nods silently, looking helplessly at her. 

‘Oh, Peter.’ Anna comes to him and pulls him close, hold him tightly. 

He leans against her for a moment, his breathing uneven. Then he composes himself and pulls back. ‘Thanks, Anna.’  
   
She cups his face with the palm of her hand. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ He nods. ‘At least let me check on him for you.’  
   
‘What do you mean?’ he asks, startled.  
   
‘Well… The papers said you two knew each other. You and Dickie Greenleaf, I mean. I could… offer my condolences. Did you ever tell him about us?’  
   
He nods. ‘Thanks, Anna. It would be… really nice of you to check on him for me. But meet him in a public place, okay? There’s too much danger lurking around us at the moment.’  
 

—

 

‘Miss Stewart? Anna Stewart?’ Anna looks up from the little corner table in the restaurant to see a young man looking down at her. ‘Dickie Greenleaf?’  
   
He hesitates a moment, then holds out his hand. ‘They told me at the reception that you wanted to see me?’  
   
‘Yes. Won’t you sit down?’ She studies him carefully as he sits down opposite her. He has a nice face, a handsome face, but there is too much worry and devastation in it for his good looks to be obvious. He looks at her expectantly.  
   
‘I’m… I was a friend of Peter’s.’ He looks stunned. ‘I’m sorry,’ Anna says quickly. ‘I read in the papers that you knew him. I just wanted to… offer my condolences.’  
   
‘You’re Anna,’ he whispers.  
   
‘Did he mention me? I was looking forward to meeting him before his concert… it’s all been a terrible shock.’  
   
‘Yes, he said… he said you worked together during… during the war.’ Tom’s face is white, his hands clenched. Her heart goes out to the boy. She signals the waiter for a drink. Tom says nothing until the waiter sets his drink down in front of him. He drains half of it quickly.  
   
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Anna says as gently as possible. ‘You must have been very close to him.’  
   
‘I… yes… yes, I was. He…’ Tom breaks off, looks away. ‘They won’t even let me see him,’ he whispers.  
   
‘You weren’t the one who identified his body, then?’ He winces, shakes his head silently. ‘Perhaps it was your other friend… Tom Ripley?’  
   
‘What do you know about Tom?’ he whispers.  
   
‘Well… only what Peter told me.’  
   
‘What did he say?’  
   
Anna hesitates, and he puts his hand on hers. ‘Please.’  
   
She cannot keep lying to this distraught boy. Not about everything. ‘You’re Tom, aren’t you?’  
   
He looks at her, stunned. ‘Why do you say that?’  
   
‘I don’t know. Intuition, perhaps? You’re Tom, and you’re in trouble.’  
   
He is speechless. For a moment he can only stare at her. Then he looks away. ‘It doesn’t matter anyway. He’s gone, and nothing else matters.’  
   
‘It may matter more than you think, Tom.’  
   
‘What do you mean? How can you know all this?’  
   
‘I can’t say too much, Tom. All I can tell you is that you must take care of yourself. Things may not be as bleak as they seem.’  
   
He stares at her, and she is very moved by the sudden hope that flares in his very blue eyes. In that moment he is beautiful, transformed, and she can see the effect that Peter has on this young man. ‘Tell me what you know. Please,’ he begs.  
   
‘He said… he said you meant more to him than anyone else ever had. He… he loved you, Tom.’  
   
Tom moans in agony and buries his face in his hands. ‘I couldn’t… I couldn’t help him. I couldn’t save him. And he saved me. From myself, from everything. He saved me, Anna,’ he chokes, his voice barely audible. For several moments, he stares at the young Greek pianist playing beside the bar. ‘I’m going to go mad.’  
   
‘No, you aren’t,’ Anna says firmly. ‘If he was in your place now, would you want him to go to pieces?’  
   
He stares at her, his eyes wet.  
 

—

 

‘You’re right. He’s falling apart. He says he’s going to go mad.’ Anna keeps her voice matter-of-fact as she looks at Peter.  
   
He groans and rests his forehead on his folded arms. She caress his hair gently, wishing there was something she could do for him. From across the room, Simone watches them both with concern.  
   
‘Peter?’ she says tentatively. He looks up immediately. ‘Call him here. Dickie Greenleaf won’t know. From what Anna says, Tom needs you. And from what I can see, you’re killing yourself.’  
   
Peter shakes his head. ‘What if Dickie follows him?’  
   
‘Maybe we can distract him. I don’t know.’ Anna is getting angrier than ever at this Dickie person. ‘We’ll do something. Anything. You must tell Tom, Peter.’ She remembers something. ‘I almost forgot. Tom said Marge wasn’t on the flight, but when he called her place in Rome, they said she’d left for Athens.’  
   
That distracts him. ‘What? That’s odd. Where could she be?’  
   
‘Do you think Dickie got to her?’  
   
‘I don’t know. I don’t see why he would. He seemed to be glad thinking he was rid of her.’  
   
‘Get Tom here, Peter. Tell him. Before something really terrible happens and you never get the chance. He’s alone out there, he’s in agony, he may just do something that… that you might never be able to forgive yourself for.’ And to Anna’s very great surprise, Peter nods. He wipes his eyes quickly and gets to his feet with a sudden determination.  
   
‘Mr Greenleaf, please,’ he says into the phone. Then he quickly hands it to Anna. ‘You’d better speak to him.’  
   
‘Tom? It’s Anna.’  
   
‘Hi, Anna.’ He sounds a little surprised, a lot in pain.  
   
‘Are you okay?’  
   
‘I — yes. I was just — yes, I’m okay.’  
   
‘Are you alone, Tom?’  
   
‘Yes, why?’  
   
‘Listen, can you come over to my place? It’s important.’  
   
‘Of course. What’s the address?’ Anna gives it to him. ‘I’ll be there in thirty minutes,’ he promises.  
   
She puts down the phone and smiles at Peter. ‘He’s on his way.’  
   
Peter looks stricken. ‘He’s going to hate me.’  
   
‘Don’t be silly. He’s going to die of happiness.’  
   
He says nothing, but bites his lip. 

‘It’s okay,’ Simone says gently. ‘You did the right thing. Even if he’s angry, he’ll come round. He won’t be able to stay mad at you for long.’ She makes him a drink and he sits at the table, not taking a single sip but clutching the glass tightly with his hands.  
   
Anna touches his clasped hands. ‘Relax, Peter. It’s going to be fine.’ 

He smiles tightly. ‘Thanks, Anna. And you, Simone. I don’t know what I’d have done without you both.’  
   
Before either of them can respond, the doorbell rings. Peter stands up quickly, almost spilling his drink. Anna squeezes his hands again and goes to the door.  
   
Tom still has that terribly haunted look in his eyes, but he attempts a smile. ‘Hello,’ he says quietly. Anna takes his hand and leads him inside.  
   
His eyes fall straight on Peter, and he blinks. A slightly puzzled frown crosses his forehead. Peter is frozen. 

Tom turns to Anna, helpless. ‘Can you — can you see him, too?’  
   
‘He’s here, Tom,’ Anna says gently. ‘He’s okay.’  
   
Tom turns back to Peter. He takes a step forward and then his legs give way under him and he falls to his knees, clutching the sofa. In an instant Peter is kneeling next to him, his arms around him. 

‘Oh, god,’ Tom gasps. ‘Oh, god.’ Then he cannot speak any more and great wracking sobs shake his body as he clutches Peter and cries as if… Anna can think of nothing she has felt that can even begin to compare to what he must be feeling. 

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Tom.’ Peter is crying too, and the two of them cling to each other as if they will never let go. Anna feels a huge obstruction in her throat and looks at Simone. Tears are flowing silently down her cheeks.  
 

—

 

   
Tom steps into Anna’s house, and the first thing he sees is Peter’s ghost. He seems so real that Tom can only keep staring at him for a moment. For some strange reason, he is imagining that Peter is wearing a military uniform. The light from the lamp catches his hair, and his face is heartbreakingly beautiful.  
   
Tom turns helplessly to Anna, wondering if his imagination is real enough to be seen by others. ‘Can you — can you see him, too?’  
   
‘He’s here, Tom,’ she says very gently. ‘He’s okay.’  
   
 _He’s here. He’s okay._  
   
Tom’s mind is completely blank as he turns to look at Peter again. He hasn’t moved. If he’s real, why doesn’t he move? Tom tries to move towards him, but the next moment, the ground gives way beneath his feet and he falls to the floor. Before he even feels the impact of his knees hitting the floor Peter is next to him, his arms wrapped around him.  
   
 _Oh, god. Peter._  
   
Tom’s vision is completely blurred, but he can smell him. That Peter smell that he loves so much. He is clutching Tom to him and Tom’s arms are around him. He is saying over and over that he is sorry. Tom wants to keep listening to his voice forever, but there is a great rushing sound in his ears, and a pounding blackness in his head.  
 

—

 

   
Suddenly, Tom goes limp in his arms. ‘Tom?’ Peter says in alarm. ‘Tom!’  
   
‘Get him on the sofa,’ Anna says quickly. 

Peter lifts Tom in his arms and rests him down on the couch. 

‘Here,’ Simone says, handing him a glass of something. His hands shaking, Peter raises Tom’s head and tilts the glass into his mouth. The fiery liquid trickles into his mouth and he splutters and coughs, his eyes flying open.  
   
Peter frames his face with his hands. ‘Tom. Tom, are you okay?’  
   
‘Peter,’ he whispers. ‘No, not again. Please, not again.’  
   
‘Tom, it’s me. I’m here.’  
   
‘No,’ he moans, turning his head away, burying his face in a cushion. ‘Not again. Please, I don’t want to dream any more. Please.’  
   
‘Tom.’ Peter can barely say his name. He grabs Tom’s wrists in his hands. ‘Tom, look at me. It’s me.’  
   
‘No!’ Before Peter can do anything, Tom yanks one wrist away from his grasp and hits him squarely on the jaw. Peter is knocked back onto the floor.  
   
Tom throws himself on top of Peter, his hands reaching for Peter’s throat. ‘Tom!’ he gasps, but his fingers are tightening with a death grip. 

‘Go away, go away, go away! Leave me alone!’ Tom screams.  
   
‘Tom, no!’ Anna cries in alarm, and it takes both her and Simone to grab his arms and pull him away from Peter. All three of them fall back on the floor as Peter struggles to sit up, coughing.  
   
Tom clings to Anna, burying his face in her shoulder. ‘Make it stop. Please,’ he moans. 

‘Tom, it’s okay. Calm down. Tom, it’s Peter. I swear it is.’  
   
Tom raises his head and looks at Peter. Anna slowly lets go of him. He pulls away from her and crawls along the floor to Peter. His fingers reach out and touch Peter’s face wonderingly. Peter’s hand reaches up automatically to touch his, and their fingers, more sure of themselves than their minds, entwine in their familiar way.

Tom’s movements are very slow now, almost as if he is moving in slow motion. He rests his head against Peter’s chest and curls up on the floor next to him, his face buried in Peter’s shirt. Peter gently rests his other hand against the back of Tom’s head, and caresses his hair. Tom’s hand tightens in Peter’s, and his other arm slips around Peter’s waist. 

‘It’s okay,’ Peter whispers against his hair. ‘Everything’s okay.’  
 

—

 

   
 _It’s okay. Everything’s okay._  
   
Peter is impossibly warm next to Tom. Tom’s senses are unbearably sharp. His mind has shut down. He can feel Peter’s hand in his, he can feel his own arm around Peter’s wonderfully solid form. He can feel Peter’s lips against his hair. 

Tom closes his eyes and inhales Peter’s scent. ‘You said you’d never leave me.’ 

Peter’s arms tighten around him. ‘I won’t, Tom. I won’t. Never again. I promise. Never again.’  
   
Tom lifts his head and looks at him in wonder. He knows this can’t be happening. The world is far too cruel to give Peter back to him. But he smiles his Peter smile and Tom cannot help but press himself to Peter again, burying his face in his neck. ‘But… how? Dickie said that he… that he…’  
   
‘He did try his best,’ Peter says softly, no malice at all in his voice.  
   
‘He said he saw you… saw you drown. That he had a… had a sandbag tied to your ankles.’  
   
‘He did.’ Peter squeezes his hand. ‘Guess it wasn’t my time.’  
   
Tom disentangles himself from their embrace and reaches down to pull up the leg of Peter’s trousers. His bare ankle has a terrible purple bruise around it, the skin broken, and Tom inhales sharply.  
   
Tom gets up from the floor, unable to meet Peter’s eyes. He can see the quiet street outside Anna’s house from the window. But more clear is his own reflection on the glass. 

_Monster. You tried to do that to him, too. You’re no better than Dickie. Worse, in fact. Far, far worse, for trying to hurt him when all he ever did was love you and accept you so completely._  
   
‘Tom?’ Peter is behind him, but doesn’t touch him. 

Tom turns around, their eyes meeting. ‘I should go,’ he whispers.  
   
‘What? Why?’ There is confusion and hurt on Peter’s face. 

Tom takes a step back, away from him. ‘You’re better off without me.’ He cannot look Peter in the eyes now.  
   
Peter laughs softly, humourlessly. ‘And you’re better off without me. And yet I can’t seem to stay away from you, even at the risk of hurting you.’  
   
‘I’m better off — what are you saying?’ Tom whispers fiercely. ‘You saved me. Without you I’m — I’m nothing.’  
   
‘That’s not true, Tom. You’re Tom Ripley, and you’re beautiful.’  
   
‘I cannot be Tom Ripley without you,’ Tom says firmly.  
   
Peter gazes at him for a long moment, his eyes silver-green in the moonlight. ‘Do you really want to leave?’  
   
‘I saw your wounds and I… realised that… that I’m no better than Dickie.’  
   
‘Don’t ever think that way, Tom.’  
   
‘He… he loves you too.’  
   
‘Yes, he told me as much,’ Peter says softly, his expression unreadable. ‘But he really did try to kill me, Tom. You didn’t. You stopped yourself.’  
   
‘I… the thought was bad enough. I was… I was terribly scared. But I.. what I did was…’

‘It wasn’t easy to deal with, Tom. For either of us. But…’ He stops, and Tom holds his breath.  
   
‘Maybe we just need some time,’ Peter says softly. ‘And besides, there’s still a lot to sort out. We need to get you safe. You can’t go on being Dickie Greenleaf.’  
   
‘And after it’s over?’  
   
‘After it’s over… maybe we’ll be able to sort things out between us.’  
   
Tom has a terrible sensation that Peter is slipping through his fingers. ‘You just said…’ Peter looks at him, not saying anything, letting him find the words. ‘You just said… never again.’  
   
Peter reaches out to touch his face gently. ‘I did, and I meant it. But…’  
   
Tom holds Peter’s hand against his face. ‘But what?’  
   
‘I don’t know, Tom. I don’t know if we can move past everything that’s happened.’  
   
‘You mean you don’t know if you can ever forgive me.’  
   
‘I mean I don’t know if you can forgive yourself.’  
   
‘Peter, I…’ There is nothing to say. Tom finds himself losing control again, not knowing how he can tell Peter about the horror of losing him once, of how unbearable the thought is of losing him again. He slides his arms around Peter's waist and pulls him to him. Peter allows him to draw him close, and kisses his forehead. 

Tom falls to his knees in front of Peter, his arms still wrapped around Peter’s waist, his face buried in Peter’s shirt. Peter holds Tom against him, his fingers slipping into Tom’s hair, kisses the top of his head. He frames Tom’s face with his hands, makes him look up at him. ‘I’m not letting you go if I can help it,’ he promises Tom.  
 

—

 

Tom wakes up in the middle of the night, jolted awake by another nightmare. He is in Peter’s bed, both them fully dressed. 

‘Tom?’ Peter murmurs, turning to him. ‘You okay?’ 

Tom wants nothing more than to pull him close, but he doesn’t dare touch him. 

Peter sits up and puts his arm around Tom. ‘Another nightmare?’ he says gently. 

Tom turns to him helplessly, unable to tell him how difficult it is to have him so close, and yet be so far from him. 

‘Let’s see what we can do about that,’ Peter says softly, and leans forward to brush his lips against Tom’s.

‘Peter,’ Tom whispers. It feels so good just to be able to say his name. 

‘Sshh,’ Peter says. ‘Don’t say anything.’  
   
They don’t need to say anything more that night, and Tom sleeps dreamlessly. When he awakes Peter is still with him, Tom’s head on his shoulder, his arm around Tom. Peter opens his eyes and smiles at him. 

‘Hey,’ Tom whispers. 

‘I hope I wasn’t out of line last night,’ Peter says, gently brushing Tom’s hair away from his forehead. 

Tom reaches up and kisses him in response, and he moans with pleasure and snuggles into Tom’s embrace.  
 

—

 

‘Good morning,’ Anna grins as they enter the kitchen together. ‘Breakfast?’  
   
‘Yes, please,’ Peter says, grinning. 

Tom sits at the table and watches him as he helps Anna with toast and coffee. 

‘How are you doing?’ Anna asks, looking over at Tom, smiling. 

‘I’m great.’ Tom grins at her. 

She laughs. ‘I’m glad. You two idiots seem to have figured it out.’  
   
‘Figured what out?’ Peter says, feigning innocence.  
   
‘I think you know,’ she says, smiling. 

Peter looks over at Tom and smiles. ‘I think we have. What do you say, Tom?’ he asks lightly. 

Tom raises an eyebrow at him. ‘I already knew.’ 

Peter laughs and sits down at the table with him.  
   
Anna smiles at both of them. ‘I have a rehearsal to get to. Don’t get into any trouble while I’m gone, okay?’ She hugs them both before leaving.  
   
Peter reaches across the table and puts his hand on Tom’s, leaving it there as he sips his coffee. Tom clutches it tightly, marvelling at the changes that have happened in the last few hours. All the desolation and grief has slipped away, although he still feels nervous, as if it will creep back in if he looks away for too long.  
   
Peter senses his mood. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asks quietly. 

Tom shakes his head, and smiles at him. ‘Nothing. Everything… everything’s perfect. I’m just… I just need a little time to… to get over what I was feeling. About losing you.’  
   
Peter’s hand tightens on his. ‘I feel terrible about that, Tom. I’m so sorry.’  
   
‘I know. Don’t be. You’re okay, and that’s the only thing that matters.’  
   
‘I was there… that night when you were asleep on the floor.’  
   
‘You put the jacket under my head?’ Peter nods. Tom remembers the absolute desolation of that night. And he had been so close.  
   
‘How did you get in?’  
   
‘Through the window,’ he admits ruefully.

Tom laughs. ‘You cared that much,’ he says in delight.  
   
‘Of course I did. I do,’ he says in surprise.  
   
‘I’m sorry. I just haven’t… had that.’  
   
Peter leans forward, his gaze holding Tom’s. ‘You have it now, Tom. Don’t ever forget that.’  
   
Tom takes Peter’s face in his hands and cover Peter’s mouth with his, and Peter allows him to ravish his mouth. 

After several moments Peter pulls back, breathless. ‘Let’s not get distracted,’ he grins. ‘We have work to do.’  
   
‘Dickie.’  
   
‘And Marge. I hope she’s okay.’


	6. Chapter 6

Tom knocks on the door, hard.  
   
Dickie opens the door, his hair tousled, yawning. ‘God, Ripley. It’s the middle of the night.’  
   
‘It’s ten in the morning. Where’s Marge?’  
   
‘I don’t know. Out.’  
   
‘So she’s with you.’  
   
‘Of course. What did you think she was here for — a Ripley rainy day?’  
   
Tom turns away, disgusted. 

‘Where were you last night? Found another boyfriend, did you?’ Dickie jeers. ‘Didn’t take you long to get over Peter, did it?’ 

Tom turns back to him, murder in his eyes, but he laughs and shuts the door.  
 

—

 

Tom enters Peter’s room and slams the door behind him, his blood still boiling. 

‘What happened?’ Peter asks calmly. He is sitting on the bed, looking over his sonata.  
   
‘Nothing. Marge is with him. He just… pissed me off.’ Tom sits down next to him and puts his arms around him, burying his face in Peter’s neck. He caresses the back of Tom’s neck, and Tom finds himself calming down instantly. Nothing soothes him like Peter’s warm scent, his closeness.  
   
Peter smiles at Tom when he finally pulls back. ‘Better?’  
   
‘God, yes.’ Tom takes Peter’s hand, presses his lips against his palm. ‘I didn’t actually see Marge. We’ll have to keep an eye out for her. But I think he might have taken her into confidence.’  
   
‘I checked with Nikolaus. He says Dickie did come back last night with a blonde woman, and she went out alone this morning.’  
   
‘So she’s safe.’  
   
‘For the moment.’  
   
‘What about you? Are you going to confront him?’  
   
‘Yes. We need him to confess to being Dickie, and that he tried to kill me. We’ll never be able to prove it otherwise.’ Peter looks at him thoughtfully. ‘I think they’ll take my word for the fact that you’re Tom Ripley.’  
   
‘I have some papers too.’  
   
‘Why didn’t you show them to the police earlier?’ Peter says, startled.  
   
‘I had nothing to gain by it. And… I suppose I wanted to get rid of Tom. Nothing… nothing made sense without you, Peter. I didn’t care any more.’  
   
‘Tom… I can’t have you thinking that way, okay? Even if… if I’m not around.’  
   
‘What do you mean? Why wouldn’t you be around?’  
   
‘This isn’t over yet, Tom,’ Peter reminds him gently.  
   
‘Nothing’s going to happen to you. I won’t allow it.’  
   
‘Let’s just promise each other we’ll be very, very careful. Agreed?’  
   
‘Agreed.’  
   
‘Well… I suppose I may as well pay Dickie a visit.’  
   
‘What — now?’ Tom says in alarm.  
   
Peter shrugs. ‘Why wait?’  
   
‘I’m not letting you go alone.’  
   
‘Tom — ’  
   
‘No, Peter. There’s no way you’re seeing him alone.’  
   
Peter looks at him for a long moment. ‘Okay. But there’s no sense in letting things get volatile.’ Tom smiles. ‘What?’ Peter asks.  
   
‘I remember the last time you used that word. When we were being interrogated in Venice.’  
   
Peter smiles. ‘God, that was centuries ago.’  
   
‘I thought you were the most gorgeous person I’d ever seen. I hated having to tell you that I had a fiancée.’  
   
Peter laughs. ‘I knew that wasn’t true.’  
   
‘Did you?’ Tom whispers against his mouth, just before pressing his lips against Peter’s. 

Peter pulls away after a minute. ‘None of that,’ he admonishes Tom gently, giving him a last quick brush of his lips. 

‘I know,’ Tom sighs. ‘Let’s go get this over with.’  
 

—

 

‘Hello, Dickie,’ Peter says quietly as they stand outside his door.  
   
Dickie stares and stares. ‘Peter,’ he whispers finally. 

Tom pushes past him and enters his room. Marge is sitting at the table. ‘Oh my god!’ she cries out when she sees Peter. She jumps up and throws her arms around him. 

Peter hugs her back warmly. ‘It’s good to see you, Marge.’  
   
‘Peter, I don’t believe it.’ Her eyes are shining with tears. 

‘I’m fine,’ he assures her. He turns back to Dickie, his arm around her. ‘As Dickie and Tom have both discovered, I’m a hard man to kill.’

Tom knows the harshness of his tone is for Dickie’s benefit, but what he says still stings terribly. Suddenly it seems as if Dickie and Tom are on the same side. As if reinforcing Tom’s fear, Dickie takes a step closer to him.  
   
‘What do you want?’ Dickie asks warily, studying Peter’s face. 

Peter’s eyes are inscrutable. ‘I want you to come to the police with us. Confess what you’ve done, and clear Tom’s name.’  
   
‘Clear his name? What about Freddie?’ Dickie sneers.  
   
‘Tom will take full responsibility for that.’  
   
‘What if I don’t want to?’  
   
‘I’m afraid you don’t have a choice. How long is this charade going to go on?’  
   
‘I’m afraid I do have a choice, Peter.’ 

Tom blinks. In a flash, Dickie has withdrawn a hideous weapon from his pocket — a Colt, which is pointed straight at Peter’s heart.  
   
‘Dickie,’ Marge moans. ‘Put that away. Please.’  
   
‘Not likely, hon. These two have given me enough trouble. Get one of my ties from the drawer, there’s a good girl.’ Marge bites her lip, but obeys.  
   
‘Give it to Tom. Tom, I’d like you to bind Peter’s hands behind him with that. Very tightly, if you please.’  
   
‘No.’  
   
‘Tom.’ Peter’s eyes are still unreadable, his face expressionless. ‘Do as he says.’  
   
‘Peter, no.’  
   
‘Hurry up, Tom. It’s either that or a bullet in the chest for Peter. Your choice.’  
   
Tom takes the tie from Marge, desperately trying to read Peter’s expression, hoping he has a plan. 

Dickie comes to stand next to them as Peter crosses his wrists behind his back. ‘Tighter,’ he says with satisfaction. ‘Another knot. That’s perfect.’  
   
He makes Peter kneel on the floor, and then has Tom stand with his back against the bedpost, binding his wrists behind him with another tie. Tom is effectively bound to the bed now.  
   
‘Marge, keep an eye on him. Peter and I are going for a ride.’  
   
‘Dickie, no,’ Tom begs. ‘Please. I’ll do anything you want. Just leave him alone.’  
   
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that, Tom. It’s too late.’  
   
‘What are you going to do?’ Marge asks, her eyes wide, frantic.  
   
‘That’s between Peter and me. Don’t worry, hon. I’ll call you later.’  
   
Dickie puts a long overcoat over Peter, hiding his bound hands. He pulls Peter away from Tom, pushing him towards the door. 

‘Dickie, please… don’t hurt him,’ Marge whispers. 

Dickie winks at her and opens the door. Tom’s eyes meet Peter’s for one last moment, and then they are gone.  
   
The moment the door closes, Tom turns his head towards Marge. ‘Marge, what’s he planning? Did he tell you?’  
   
‘Tom, he said you killed Freddie. He said you attacked him.’  
   
‘I did. Marge, he tried to kill Peter. He’s going to do it again. Please, you must help Peter.’  
   
Marge is almost crying. ‘I don’t know. Peter… Peter’s the best friend I ever had. But I… I can’t live without Dickie, Tom. They’ll take him away.’  
   
‘He hasn’t killed anyone, Marge. I have. And I… I’ll take the fall for him. I’ll say I tried to kill Peter. Anything. I’ll make sure Dickie isn’t arrested. Just help Peter. Please.’  
   
‘You’ll take the fall? You promise?’  
   
‘You have my word. I’ll do it for Peter. You know I will.’  
   
She nods and unties him from the bedpost. 

‘Do you have any idea where Dickie could be headed?’  
   
‘One of his father’s companies has an old warehouse near the coast, just outside city limits. About ten miles out. It’s abandoned now. It might be where Dickie’s planning to go.’  
   
‘Okay. I’m going after them. Can you get the police and meet me there?’  
   
‘Yes. I’ll go right away. But Tom — you must keep your word.’ Her eyes are desperate, pleading.  
   
‘I will, Marge.’

 

—

 

 

The warehouse is dark and unwelcoming, almost falling apart. Tom sees a car parked outside as his rental car screeches to a halt outside. Throughout the drive his head has been filled with images of what Peter may be going through. He pushes his thoughts aside and runs into the warehouse. Dickie is standing there, the Colt in his hand.  
   
‘Where is he?’ Tom steps into his path.  
   
Dickie gestures behind him. Tom looks over his shoulder and sucks his breath in. The floor is unfinished, leading to a steep gorge that falls away into nothing. Peter is standing at the edge, his hands still tied behind him.  
   
‘You’re just in time for the finale,’ Dickie says casually. ‘Peter was just trying to decide if he’d rather jump or get shot.’  
   
‘You okay, Peter?’ Tom calls out. 

Peter nods. ‘Stay away from him, Tom.’  
   
‘So, Peter, which is it going to be? I don’t have all day.’  
   
‘Dickie, I’m willing to tell the police I’m responsible for everything. That I tried to kill Peter.’  
   
Dickie raises his eyebrows at Tom. ‘And why would you do that?’  
   
‘In exchange for his life. Please.’  
   
‘Tom, no,’ Peter says quietly. 

Tom ignores him. ‘What do you say, Dickie?’  
   
‘Tell you what. I’ll give you something better. The chance to tell the police you did kill him.’  
   
Before Tom can move, he has squeezed the trigger.  
   
‘No!’ Tom screams, but it is too late. The bullet hits Peter and he falls back, disappearing into the gorge.  
   
Tom throws himself at Dickie, wrestling the gun from his hands. He wants to blow Dickie’s brains out, but he settles for hitting him over the head with the butt of the pistol, hard. Dickie falls and doesn’t get up.  
   
Tom throws the gun aside and runs to the edge of the chasm. ‘Peter!’ he screams. Then he sees him. He is lying on a narrow ledge several feet below, face down, a dark stain spreading beneath him.  
   
Tom cannot think. All he knows is that he needs to reach Peter, needs to help him. He begins the difficult descent, clinging to the rock face, keeping his eyes on Peter.  
   
He reaches Peter and turns him over. His eyes are closed, his clothes wet with blood. Tom's shaking hands find a pulse in his throat. He pulls off his sweater and shirt, using the shirt as padding against the wound, binding his own shirt around Peter’s chest to keep the bandage in place. He hold Peter in his arms, trying to stop shaking. 

_He’ll be okay. Everything will be okay. We’ll get through this. He’s strong. He’ll survive. I won’t let him die._  
   
‘Tom,’ Peter whispers, his eyes closed, his head moving slightly.  
   
‘Peter.’ Tom has to fight to keep the tears out of his voice. ‘Sshh, Peter. Don’t try to move.’  
   
‘You’re here… I knew...’ His voice sounds like it’s coming from very, very far away. 

Tom holds him close, his face buried in Peter’s hair. ‘Yes, Peter. I’m here. I’m here. I’m not going to let you go.’ He tries to keep the terror out of his voice. Peter is losing so much blood that Tom doesn’t dare think about what will happen if he doesn’t get to a hospital quickly.  
   
‘Tom! Peter! Where are you?’  
   
‘Marge! Marge, we’re down here!’ Tom cries out. He sees her pale, anxious face peering over the edge of the pit. ‘Tom? Oh god — what happened?’  
   
‘Peter’s been shot. We need an ambulance.’  
   
‘I’ve called for one. Dickie is hurt. Tom — the police are here.’  
   
‘I’m not leaving Peter. Marge, I’ll tell them everything, I swear. Just let us get through this first.’  
   
‘Did Dickie do it? Did he hurt Peter?’  
   
Tom nods, unable to speak now. Peter’s precious blood is draining away as he lies in Tom’s arms, and there is nothing Tom can do about it.  
   
‘Peter.’ Tom shakes him gently. ‘Peter, try to stay awake. Talk to me. Please.’ He is quiet, too quiet. ‘Peter, please.’ Tom’s tears are falling on Peter’s face now, wetting his hair. 

Peter doesn’t move. He is barely breathing. Tom knows Peter is beyond feeling his arms around him, feeling Tom’s desperate attempts to keep him alive. He presses a hand against the makeshift bandage, trying to slow the loss of blood, holding him, waiting.  
 

—

 

‘Tom?’ Marge’s voice sounds like a scream, even though she is barely audible. Tom starts violently, and she puts a hand on his arm to steady him. ‘It’s okay. I just thought I’d check on you.’  
   
‘Peter — is he — ?’  
   
‘Still unconscious.’ She sits down next to him in the hospital corridor. It’s four in the morning, and no one else is in sight.  
   
‘I thought you went with the police.’  
   
‘I did. Dickie… gave them the slip. He’s missing.’  
   
‘What? He could come back. I must check on Peter.’  
   
‘Sit, Tom,’ she says wearily. ‘There’s a police guard at Peter’s room.’  
   
Tom still needs to check for himself. The guard outside Peter’s room stops him. ‘Sir, I’m afraid I can’t let you go in.’  
   
‘It’s okay,’ Marge says from behind him. ‘He’s a friend.’  
   
The guard looks at Tom doubtfully. ‘Are you all right, sir?’ 

Tom looks down at himself. He is covered in Peter’s blood. He pushes his way past the guard.  
   
Peter is lying very still, an oxygen mask over his face, tubes and needles running into him. Tom cannot bear to see him like this, and he cannot bear to look away.  
   
‘Tom?’ Marge says very quietly from behind him. ‘There’s nothing you can do here. Come on.’ She tugs at his hand, and he tears his eyes away from Peter and follows her outside.  
   
‘You should get cleaned up,’ she suggests gently as Tom sinks back into his seat in the corridor outside Peter’s room. He shakes his head wearily. The last thing he wants to do is remove the clothes which have Peter’s blood on them.  
   
‘Tom… there’s something you should know. The police — ’  
   
‘I’ll talk to them tomorrow, Marge. I’ll keep my word, don’t worry.’  
   
‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I don’t think you’ll have to.’ 

Tom looks at her, too tired to speak.  
   
‘Dickie’s running away has convinced them he’s guilty of everything. They’ll only want you as a witness. Nothing more.’  
   
‘I thought you… you wanted me to…’  
   
‘No, Tom. Let things be. I… what Dickie did to Peter was unforgivable. I never want to see him again.’  
   
‘I’m sorry, Marge.’  
   
‘Don’t be. I’ve seen what Peter means to you. You both deserve to be happy.’  
   
‘I can’t… I can’t bear to think of it. I can’t remember what happiness feels like. If he… if he doesn’t wake up…’  
   
‘Oh, Tom.’ She puts her arm around his shoulders. He savagely wipes the tears away from his eyes.  
   
‘I don’t suppose I can convince you to try and get some sleep?’  
   
‘I’m staying here. Go back to the hotel, Marge. I’ll call you if… I’ll call you in the morning.’  
   
Tom goes back to Peter’s room. This time, the guard doesn’t try to stop him, doesn’t say anything. But he gets up and opens the door for Tom. Tom shuts it quietly behind him and sits down in a chair beside Peter’s bed. He looks terribly fragile. Tom puts his hand on Peter’s and closes his eyes.  
   
A couple of hours later, he is awakened by the door opening. It is a doctor. She says nothing at first, but spends several minutes examining Peter.  
   
‘Doctor?’ Tom whispers finally. ‘Is he… is he going to be all right?’  
   
She finally looks at him. ‘Mr — ?’  
   
‘Ripley. Tom Ripley.’  
   
‘I won’t pretend that this young man is not grievously hurt, Mr Ripley. But he’s young and strong and healthy, and I have hope that he will recover.’  
   
Tom nods. ‘Thank you, doctor.’  
   
‘Ada Greene. I’ll be back to check on him later, Tom.’  
   
‘Thank you, doctor.’  
   
‘You may want to call someone, Tom,’ she suggests quietly. ‘Driving yourself to exhaustion won’t help Peter.’  
 

—

 

Thirty minutes later Tom is waiting in the corridor. Anna comes out of Peter’s room, looking devastated.  
   
‘I’m sorry, Anna,’ Tom chokes. ‘I… I couldn’t…’  
   
She silently puts her arms around him. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Tom,’ she says softly, holding him. Tom is beyond words, beyond telling anyone that everything is his fault.  
   
‘Will you go home?’ Anna asks.  
   
‘I’ll do anything you say, Anna, but not that. Please. I… I can’t leave him. I won’t.’  
   
She sighs. ‘I know. I can’t ask you to. But I’m staying too. Will you at least lie down on that bench over there? I’ll sit with Peter for a while. I won’t take my eyes off him. I promise.’  
   
Tom nods silently and takes her advice.  
 

—

 

It is two days before there is a change in Peter’s condition, two days during which Tom sleeps in snatches on the bench outside Peter’s room and in the chair beside his bed, wearing the same clothes he had been in on the night Peter was shot. Ada will not let him play music to Peter, but she allows him to read to him from his favourite books: Hugo, Novalis, Keats, Tagore.  
   
Tom is sitting beside him, his eyes closed, when he feels Peter’s hand stir under his. He leans close to Peter as his eyelids flutter. Peter looks at him, his eyes unfocused. 

Tom can say nothing, cannot stop the tears from running silently down his face. Peter’s lips move slightly, but he cannot speak because of the mask on his face. He lifts his hand to his face and takes off the mask.  
   
‘Peter, don’t,’ Tom begins to say, alarmed. 

‘It’s okay,’ Peter says, his voice very hoarse. ‘I can breathe on my own.’  
   
‘Oh, god. Thank god.’ Tom buries his face in his hands, unable to keep the tears back. Peter puts his hand on the back of Tom’s neck and pulls him close, resting Tom’s head against his shoulder. Tom puts his arm around Peter’s waist, and they stay like that for several minutes. 

Finally, Tom lifts his head and presses his lips to Peter’s forehead.  
   
‘What day is it?’ Peter asks.  
   
‘Friday. You’ve been unconscious almost three days.’  
   
Peter groans. ‘Everything hurts,’ he complains, but his tone is light.  
   
‘You need painkillers. I’ll get the doctor.’  
   
‘Too late, she’s already here,’ Dr Greene says from the doorway. She smiles at Peter. ‘Hello, Peter. I’m Ada.’  
   
‘Hi,’ Peter says softly.  
   
‘I’m just going to check on you, okay?’ She doesn’t ask Tom to leave or let go of Peter’s hand. Tom’s not sure he could release Peter’s hand if his life depended on it.  
   
‘Well,’ she says finally, smiling down at Peter. ‘You’re a very fortunate young man. Looks like you’re going to be fine. You had your friends very worried.’ She smiles at Tom.  
   
‘I seem to be doing that a lot lately,’ Peter says ruefully, squeezing Tom’s hand. 

Ada laughs. ‘Get lots of rest, Peter. And Tom, see that he does. I’ll be back later to see how you’re doing.’  
   
‘Help me sit up?’ Peter smiles when Ada has left. Tom puts his arm around him and props him up a little, putting two pillows behind his back to support him. Peter suddenly looks at him in alarm. ‘Tom, your clothes — are you okay?’  
   
‘Yes. It’s your blood.’  
   
Peter’s forehead creases in concern. ‘You never left the hospital, did you?’ 

Tom shakes his head, not knowing what to say.  
   
‘You’re going to. Now. I thought I told you to take care of yourself.’  
   
‘Don’t make me leave you,’ Tom pleads.  
   
Peter sighs. ‘I can’t make you leave. I don’t want you to leave.’  
   
‘That’s more like it,’ Tom smiles, gently brushing Peter's tousled hair away from his forehead. Then he remembers. ‘Anna! I must call her. And Marge.’  
   
‘I’m not awake two minutes, and you want to run away to talk to beautiful women,’ Peter teases gently. 

Tom hugs him tightly, laughing. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’  
   
When he gets back, a nurse is fiddling with Peter’s tubes, injecting something into his intravenous drip. Seeing the look on Tom’s face, she says quickly, ‘I’m just giving him some painkillers that Dr Greene prescribed. They may make him drowsy.’  
   
After she leaves, Tom sits at the edge of Peter’s bed. ‘Try to sleep, Peter.’ He runs his fingers over Peter’s cheek, his lips. 

Peter kisses his fingertips lightly. ‘Why does everyone want me to go to sleep again?’ he complains.  
   
Tom laughs and kisses his shoulder. ‘Let’s get you on your feet again, and then I promise I’ll keep you up all night.’  
   
‘I like the sound of that,’ Peter grins. Then his eyes catch Tom’s, holding his gaze. ‘The last couple of days… must have been very difficult.’  
   
‘They were.’ Tom cannot look away from his eyes, and he knows Peter is seeing in his what he felt.  
   
‘Tom… I promised I wouldn’t leave you.’  
   
‘I know. I was just… afraid. Terrified.’  
   
‘I know. I won’t do that to you again. From now on, I’m going to do everything I can to keep you happy. I promise.’  
   
‘Peter, I… Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’  
   
‘I’m saying I don’t want to spend another day without you. God knows we’ve been apart enough.’ 

Tom can only gaze at him.  
   
‘If that’s what you want,’ Peter adds, his eyes searching Tom’s face.  
   
‘Hmmm. I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it,’ Tom says lightly, his tone belying the pounding of his heart. 

Peter groans. ‘Kick a man when he’s down, why don’t you?’ 

Tom laughs helplessly and holds Peter close. ‘Of course it’s what I want, you idiot. I just… I just don’t know if that’s what’s best for you.’  
   
‘Tom Ripley, I forbid you to think that. Ever again. Is that understood?’  
   
‘Understood,’ Tom whispers, pressing Peter’s hand to his lips.

 

~end


End file.
